sequel of this passage.
"Until these and other sources of history are made accessible, it is vain
to expect any sober or trustworthy history of Ireland. The old romantic
notions of a golden age, so attractive to some minds, must continue to
prevail....
"The authors of our popular histories were avowedly ignorant, with
scarcely an exception, of the ancient language of Ireland--the language
in which the real sources of Irish history are written. It was as if the
authors of the history of Rome had been all ignorant of Latin, and the
writers of our histories of Greece unable to read Greek. Even this would
not, however, fully represent the real state of the case as regards
Ireland. Livy and Tacitus, Herodotus and Thucydides, are printed books,
and good translations of them exist. But the authorities of Irish history
are still for the most part in manuscript, and unpublished, untranslated,
and scattered in the public libraries in Dublin, Oxford, and London, as
well as on the continent of Europe, Hence our popular histories leave us
completely in the dark, and often contain erroneous information. Wherever
the Irish names of places or persons are concerned they are at fault.
They are entirely silent on the genealogies, relationships, and laws of
the clans and their chieftains a subject so essential, to the right
understanding of Irish history."
{770}
The most popular of our histories is that translated from the Irish of the
learned Dr. Geoffry Keating, by Dermod O'Connor, and first published,
Westminster, 1726. It was but indifferently done. Dr. Todd gives a decided
preference to that lately executed by O'Mahony, and published in America.
Dr. Todd gives his readers the pleasant information that two perfect copies
of the original Irish, executed by John Torna O'Mulconry, a contemporary of
Dr. Keating, are preserved in the library of Trinity College, Dublin.
The Mss. Of Our Danish Chronicle.
The narrative in the work under notice embraces two centuries, ending with
the battle of Clontarf, A.D. 1014. Of the two hundred pages devoted to the
subject, the wars waged by Mahon of Thomond and his younger brother, Brian
Borumha, occupy a hundred and fifty. The fact is accounted for by giving
the authorship to Mac Liag, Brian's chief bard, or some other devoted filea
or seanachie of his house, who survived the great day at Clontarf. The
learned editor furnishes ample accounts of the MSS. used in the work, and
we proceed to make use of them for the information of our readers. A very
small portion of it, to wit, one leaf, folio size, closely written on both
sides in double columns, is preserved in the Book of Leinster. [Footnote
278] The contents of this leaf are given in the appendix.
[Footnote 278: The Book of Leinster was written by Finn, Bishop of
Kildare, for Hugh MacGriffin, tutor of that antetype of Henry VIII.,
namely, Diarmuid MacMurroch It is a collection of narratives, tales,
genealogies, and poems; some of these last attributed to Fionn
MacCumball and his son Oisin. The death of its compiler in 1160 is
noticed in the Annals of the Four Masters, under the date A.D. 1160.]
The second MS., also defective, is preserved in the library of Trinity
College. We copy Dr. Todd's reference to it:
"This copy was found about the year 1840, by the late eminent scholar,
Mr. O'Curry, bound up in one of the Seabright MSS., formerly in the
possession of the celebrated antiquary, Edward Lluyd. There is nothing
except the appearance of the MS., and its handwriting, to fix its age,
but, judging from these criteria, we cannot be far wrong in supposing it
to have been written about the middle of the fourteenth century. It is
imperfect both at the beginning and at the end.... There are also some
intervening defects, arising from a loss of leaves."
The MS. in which the valuable fragment is preserved is marked H, 2, 17.
"The third MS. is a paper copy preserved in the Burgundian library,
Brussels, which has the advantage of being perfect. It is in the
handwriting of the eminent Irish scholar, Friar Michael O'Clery, by whom
it was transcribed in the year 1635. This appears by the following note
at the end:
"'Out of the Book of Cueonnacht O'Daly, the poor friar, Michael
O'Clery, wrote the copy from which this was written, in the convent of
the friars in Baile Tighe, Farannain, (Multifarnham,) in the month of
March of this year, 1628, and this (the present) copy was written by
the same friar in the convent of Dun-na-n Gail, (Donegal,) in the month
of November of this year, 1635.'"
The learned friar copied or introduced into his history catalogues and
poems not to be found in the Dublin MS., and there are passages in the last
not to be found in the Brussels copy. The chronicle now printed is, of
course, the more copious, as it contains everything to be found in either.
It was not till some time after the discovery of the Dublin MS., by Mr.
O'Curry, as recorded, that the existence of the Brussels copy became known.
Dr. Todd proceeded to that city in August, 1848, and copied all the
portions not to be found in the one at home. Afterward, as he observes:
"Through the influence of the Earl of Clarendon, then Lord Lieutenant of
Ireland, he obtained from the Belgian government a loan of this and some
other MSS., and in 1833 caused a complete copy of it to be made by Mr.
O'Curry, for the library of Trinity College, Dublin. These transcripts
have been carefully collated in forming the text of the present edition."
Who Wrote The Chronicle?
The authorship of the work is attributed to Muriertach Mac Liag, the chief
bard of King Brian, but no sure conclusion can be come to on this point.
{771}
It is certain, however, that it is the production of a zealous Dalcassian,
and that it was composed soon after the battle of Clontarf. We copy the
curious circumstance which proves to certainty that the original compiler
was contemporary with the concluding event of the narrative:
"It is stated in the account given of the battle of Clontarf, that the
full tide in Dublin Bay on the day of the battle, 23d April, 1014,
coincided with sunrise, and that the returning tide at evening aided
considerably in the defeat of the enemy.
"It occurred to the editor, on considering this passage, that a criterion
might be derived from it to test the truth of the narrative, and of the
date assigned by the Irish to the battle of Clontarf. He, therefore,
proposed to the Rev. Samuel Haughton, M.D., Fellow of Trinity College,
and Professor of Geology in the University of Dublin, to solve for him
this problem: 'What was the hour of high-water at the shore of Clontarf
in Dublin Bay on the 23d April, 1014?' The editor did not make known to
Dr. Haughton the object he had in view in this question, and the
coincidence of the results obtained with the ancient narrative is
therefore the more valuable and curious."
The result of Dr. Haughton's calculations, communicated to the Royal Irish
Academy in May, 1861, was this:
"The tide along the Clontarf shore, when not obstructed by embankments
and walls, could not have differed many minutes, on the 23d April, 1014,
from 5 hours 30 minutes A.M., the evening tide being full in at 5 hours
55 minutes P.M.
"This proves that the author, if not himself an eye-witness, must have
derived his information from those who were. 'None others,' as Dr.
Haughton observes, 'could have invented the fact that the battle began at
sunrise, and that the tide was then full in.' The importance of the time
of tide became evident at the close of the day, when the returned tide
prevented the escape of the Danes from the Clontarf shore to the north
bank of the Liffey."
In the chronicle the author makes a distinction between races of the
invaders, namely, the dark-haired Danes and the fair-haired Norwegians. The
word Lochlann (lake land) is applicable to Norway with its numerous fiords,
to which the ancient Irish writers applied the name of lochs. The epithet
_gormglasa_ (bluish green) was probably applied to the plate armor
worn by some of them.
Style and Spirit of the Work.
The following passage will furnish a fair specimen of the style of the
chronicle, besides exhibiting the misery of a country divided into small
kingdoms when a ferocious band of foreigners chose to make a lodgment in
it:
"In a word, although there were an hundred hard-steeled iron heads on one
neck, and an hundred sharp, ready, cool, never-resting, brazen tongues in
each head, and an hundred garrulous, loud, unceasing voices from each
tongue, they could not recount, nor enumerate, nor tell what all the
Gaedhil suffered in common, both men and women, laity and clergy, old and
young, noble and ignoble, of hardship, and of injury, and oppression in
every house from these valiant, foreign, purely pagan people. Even though
great were this cruelty, and oppression, and tyranny--though numerous
were the oft-victorious clans of the many-familied Erinn--though numerous
their kings, and their royal chiefs, and their princes--though numerous
their heroes, and champions, and their brave soldiers, their chiefs of
valor and renown, and deeds of arms--yet not one of them was able to give
relief, or alleviation, or deliverance from that oppression and tyranny,
from the numbers, and the multitudes, and the cruelty, and the wrath of
the brutal, ferocious, furious, untamed, implacable hordes by whom that
oppression was inflicted, because of the excellence of their polished,
ample, treble, heavy, trusty, glittering corselets, and their hard,
strong, valiant swords, and their well-riveted long spears, and their
ready, brilliant arms of valor besides, and because of the greatness of
their achievements and of their deeds, their bravery and their valor,
their strength, and their venom, and their ferocity, and because of the
excess of their thirst and their hunger for the brave, fruitful, nobly
inhabited, full of cataracts, rivers, bays, pure, smooth-planed, sweet,
grassy land of Erinn."
Little can the mere English reader, who may look on much of this as mere
bombast, feel the charm which such substantives and epithets as the
following had on the original hearers or readers of the work: "Luireach,
lainndearda, luchtmara, tredualach, trom, trebhraid, taitnemach," (Loricas,
polished, ample, treble, etc.)
{772}
Causes of the Invaders' Success.
The editor, alluding to the defeats suffered by the Irish forces on many
occasions, finds no great difficulty in accounting for them, and this
without the slightest reflection on their innate courage or skill in the
use of their arms:
"The whole body of the clan were summoned to decide upon the question of
war or peace. Every petty chieftain of every minor tribe, if not every
individual clansman, had a voice not only in this primary question, but
also, when the war was declared, in the questions arising upon subsequent
military operations... The kings or chieftains were themselves chosen by
the clan, although the choice was limited to those who possessed a sort
of hereditary right, often complicated by a comparison of the personal
merits of the rival claimants.
"The army was a rope of sand. It consisted of a number of minor clans,
each commanded by its own petty chieftain, receiving no pay, and bound by
no oath of allegiance to the king or chief commander. Each clan, no
doubt, adhered with unshaken fidelity to its own immediate chieftain, but
he on the smallest offence could dismiss his followers to their homes
even at the very eve of a decisive battle.... These facts must be borne
in mind if we would rightly understand the inherent weakness of warfare
in ancient Ireland."
Thus many of the faults we choose to impute to our ancestors and their
supposed natural propensities should be rather imputed to the circumstances
in which they were placed than to themselves. A tribe could not reckon upon
a continuance of peace with neighbors or strangers for a single week. A
chief enjoying the strength, and courage, and wisdom of manhood was
essential to their well-being, almost to their existence. The heir-apparent
of the chief for the time might be a child or an incompetent youth. In this
case it was but sound policy to elect during the chief's life his brother
or other near relative to assume the command immediately on his decease.
This was done, the election being restricted to the Duine Uasals
(gentlemen) of the tribe. The scrutiny might be distinguished on occasions
by the usual disagreeables of an election, but it prevented the
inconveniences of an interregnum.
The Danish Proceedings Before Brian's Time.
The mere Irish were never much benefited by the nominal capital of their
country. The Norwegians, getting it into their possession in 836 or 838,
built a fortress there in 842, and the Danes, after a preliminary visit in
851, returned for reënforcements, and their king, Olaf the White, was
recognized as supreme chief of all the foreigners in Ireland in 856, and
made Dublin his headquarters.
There was a comparative rest from foreign invasions for about forty years,
but Ireland's troubles began to thicken in the early part of the tenth
century. Crowds of foreigners assembled, and the brave King of Ireland,
Nial of the Black Knee, collected all the forces he could from Meath and
the North, and attacked their united strength at Kilmashogue in the
mountains beyond Rathfarnham. But the foreigners much outnumbered the
natives, and the heroic king with twelve petty princes perished in the
battle.
The ferocious invaders did not confine their attentions to Dublin and the
north; they ravaged the pleasant south country, and feelingly does the
chronicler describe the hellish mischief they committed. Overcome by his
subjects, he sometimes even neglects his darling alliteration:
"They rent her (Erinn's) shrines, and her reliquaries, and her books.
They demolished her beautiful, ornamented temples; for neither
veneration, nor honor, nor mercy for Termonn, [Footnote 279] nor
protection for church or for sanctuary, for God or for man, was felt by
this furious, ferocious, pagan, ruthless, wrathful people. In short,
until the sand of the sea, or the grass of the field, or the stars of
heaven be counted, it will not be easy to recount, or to enumerate, or to
relate what the Gaedhil, all without distinction, suffered from them. ...
Alas! many and frequent were the bright and brilliant eyes that were
suffused with tears, and dimmed with grief and despair at the separation
of son from father, and daughter from mother, and brother from brother,
and relatives from their race and from their tribe."
[Footnote 279: Church lands having the privilege of sanctuary.]
{773}
One of the most terrible of these southern descents was that made by
Imar--son of Imar (Ivar) and his three sons Dubhceann, and Cu-Allaidh, and
Aralt, (Black Head,) and Wild Dog, (Wolf,) and Harold. These worthies took
possession of Limerick, and high and haughty were their proceedings.
"Such was the oppressiveness of the tribute and rent of the foreigners at
large and generally, that there was a king from them over every
territory, and a chief over every chieftainry, and an abbot over every
church, and a steward over every village, and a soldier in every house,
so that none of the men of Erinn had power to give the milk of his cow,
nor so much as the clutch of eggs of one hen, in succor or in kindness to
an aged man or to a friend, but was forced to preserve them for the
foreign steward, or bailiff, or soldier. And though there were but one
milk-giving cow in the house, she durst not be milked for an infant of
one night, nor for a sick person, but must be kept for the steward, or
bailiff, or soldier of the foreigners. And however long he might be from
the house, his share or his supply durst not be lessened. And although
there was in the house but one cow, it must be killed for the meal of one
night, if the means of a supply could not be otherwise procured.... And
an ounce of silver Findrunl was paid for every nose besides the royal
tribute every year. And he who had not the means of paying it, had
himself to go into slavery for it."
The alternative was the loss of the organ just mentioned.
Brian's Early Struggles.
But we have got to the tenth century, and the two youthful brothers
destined to give a disabling blow to Danish tyranny are learning the
profession of arms in their father's fortress in Thomond, (_Tuaith
Muimhain_, North Munster.) These were Mathgamhain [Footnote 280] and
Brian, sons of Cennedigh, (Kennedy,) chief of the tribe of Dal-Cais.
[Footnote 280: However the people of the tenth century pronounced this
word, modern scholars are content to sound it Mahoun.
An old Munster king, Oilliol Oiuim, appointed in his will that the
descendants of his two sons, Eogan and Cormac Oas, should sway the
sceptre of the south in alternate succession. A very unwise proceeding,
as future events proved.]
The first naming of these princes in the chronicle brings out an
alliterative and patriotic glow on the pen of the enthusiastic chronicler.
"There were then governing and ruling this tribe two stout, able, valiant
pillars, two fierce, lacerating, magnificent heroes; two gates of battle,
two poles of combat, two spreading trees of shelter, two spears of
victory and readiness, of hospitality and munificence, of heart and
strength, of friendship and liveliness, the most eminent of the west of
Europe, namely, Mathgamain and Brian, the two sons of Cennedigh, son of
Lorcan, son of Lachtna, son of Core," etc.
Their cousins, the Eoganacht, having the lion's share in the government of
Leath Mogha, the following were the principal privileges of the
Dalcassians:
"It is the privilege of the host of Lugaidh's race
To lead the battalions of the hosts of Mumhain,
And afterward to be in the rere
In coming from a hostile land.
"It is not fealty that is required of them,
But to preserve the freedom of Caisel. [Footnote 281]
It is not rent, it is not tribute, as hath been heard;
It is not fostership nor fostership's fees.
[Footnote 281: The residence of the kings of the south assumed the
title of Caisiol, (_Cios_, tribute, _ail_, stone.)]
......
"And even when there is not a king
Out of you over Erinn of hosts,
Only that you would not infringe on right,
No human power could prevail over you."
Early in their lives the princes entered on a skirmishing warfare with the
enemy; and when Mahon, weary of the resultless struggle, entered on a truce
with the enemy, Brian still continued to harass them, and as his zealous
biographer says, when he could not injure them on any day, he did it next
night, and every inactive night was followed by a destructive day. He and
his followers lived in temporary huts, and continued to kill daily and
nightly their enemies "by companies, by troops, by scores, by hundreds, and
(in case of a bad day or night) by quaternions."
"Great were the hardship and the ruin, the bad food and bad bedding,
which they inflicted on him in the wild huts of the desert, on the hard,
knotty, wet roots of his native country, whilst they killed his people,
and his trusty officers, and his comrades; sorrowful, wretched, unpitied,
weary, for historians say that the foreigners cut off his people, so that
he had at last but fifteen followers."
{774}
Mahon, finding his brother in this wretched state, appointed a meeting, and
a conference was held, given in verse in the text, Mahon gently chiding
Brian for exposing the lives of his brave followers to certain death; Brian
delicately hinting that such and such of their ancestors would not be so
patient of the presence of the foe in Thomond as he (Mahon) chose to be:
"_Mahon_. Alone art them, O Brian of Banba (Erinn)!
Thy warfare was not without valor;
Not numerous hast thou come to our house;
Where hast thou left thy followers?
.....
"_Brian_. I have left them on Craig Liath, [Footnote 282]
In that breach where shields were cleft.
Birnn (Biörn)--it was difficult to cut off the man--
Fell there with his people.
[Footnote 282: Cariglea (Gray Rock) near Killaloe, seat of
_Aoibhin_, (_Aoine_, Venus?) the Bean Sighe of the
Dalcassian chiefs.]
.....
"Our fight at the Fergus was not soft;
Weary of it were we on both sides;
Our fight in the combat was no weak combat,
Thirty with Elius fell.
.....
"These are our adventures, O man!
O son of Cennedigh, the fair-skinned;
Often did we deliver ourselves with success,
From positions in which we despaired of escape.
Cennedigh for wealth would not have been,
Nor would Lorcan, the faithful, have been
So quiescent toward the foreigners,
As thou art, Mathgamhain!"
The result of the conference was a general gathering of the native fighting
men to Cashel, and soon a general engagement took place between themselves
and the foreigners at Sulcoit, in which these last sustained a terrible
defeat. The chronicler then relates with much zest the march to Limerick,
its destruction, and the treatment of the conquered:
"They carried off their jewels, and their best property, and their
saddles beautiful and foreign, their gold and their silver, their
beautiful woven cloth of all colors and of all kinds, their satins and
silken cloth, pleasing and variegated, both scarlet and green, and all
sorts of cloth, in like manner. They carried away their soft, youthful,
bright, matchless girls, their blooming, silk-clad young women, and their
active, large, and well-formed boys. The fort and the good town they
reduced to a cloud of smoke, and to red fire afterward. The whole of the
captives were collected on the hills of Saingel. Every one of them that
was fit for war was killed, and every one that was fit for a slave was
enslaved."
Family Quarrels.
A remnant of the Danish forces maintained a position in Inis Cealtra,
(Scattery Island,) under Ivar, and six years later this chief induced the
chiefs of the O'Donovans and O'Molloys to aid him to destroy the power of
Mahon, now the acknowledged king of Munster, and even to take his life.
These princes were of the Eoganacht branch of the royal line of Cashel,
and, therefore, not friendly disposed to the present Dalcassian monarch.
There are two differing narratives of the murder, with some poems
interpolated, and a guess only can be made at the truthful succession of
incidents. The editor presents as probable a version of the facts as can be
got at among the confusion of the original accounts.
Mahon unfortunately accepted an invitation to O'Donovan's house at Bruree
on the river Maigue, probably to bring about a more friendly feeling
between the two rival branches of the descendants of their common ancestor,
Oilliol Oluim.
The Bishop of Cork being active in the matter, and the Eoganacht chiefs
having sworn neither to attempt his life nor blind him, he seems to have
been quite unsuspicious. We next find him met by O'Molloy's people in a
pass between Kilmallock and Cork, and about to be put to death. One of the
accounts says that he had the Book of the Gospels of Barri (belonging to
the cathedral of Cork) on his breast, but that, as soon as he saw his death
determined on, he flung it the distance of a bow-shot away in order that it
might not be stained with his blood. A cleric witness of the base deed
denounced this curse on the O'Molloy, (Maelmuadh):
{775}
"It is Aedh (Hugh) that shall kill thee, a man from the border of Aifi,
On the north of the sun with the harshness of the wind.
The deed thou hast done shall be to thee a regret:
That for which thou hast done it thou shalt not enjoy.
Perpetual shall be its misfortune; thy posterity shall pass away,
Thy history shall be forgotten, thy tribe shall be in bondage;
The calf of a pet cow shall overthrow thee at one meeting;
Thou shall not conquer it, Aedhan shall slay thee."
"The north of the sun with the harshness of the wind" implied the burial of
the treacherous chief on the north side of a hill, where the sun's rays
would not reach his grave.
The denunciation of the bishop noticed the erics payable for the murder of
the king, but so atrocious was the deed that Brian would not accept any
recompense but the life of the culprit.
We extract a portion of the elegy made by Mahon's blind bard on the
melancholy occasion:
"Loud to-day the piercing wail of woe
Throughout the land of Ui Toirdhelbhaigh, (Torloch.)
It shall be and it is a wail not without cause,
For the loss of the hero Mathgamhain.
"Mathgamhain, the gem of Magh Fail,
Son of Cennedigh, son of Lorcan;
The western world was full of his fame--
The fiery King of Boromha.
.....
"The Dal Cais of the hundred churches remember
How we overran Gaeth Glenn,
When upon the illustrious Fergal's shield
Mathgamhain's meal was cooked.
.....
"Although calves are not suffered to go to the cows
In lamentation for the noble Mathgamhain,
There was inflicted much evil in his day
By those who are in Port Arda."
The custom of the Gael in matters militant was to appoint the time and
place for battles--however enraged one party might be with the other. Brian
sent mortal defiance to Molloy, threatening to besiege him in his own dun
if he did not attend the notice. Murchad, Brian's eldest son, and the Osgur
of his day, defied the caitiff chief to single combat. So the challenge was
accepted and the battle took place, a large body of the Danes fighting
under the banner of Maelmuadh. This chief was slain either by the hand of
Murchad, or put to death in cold blood by Aedhan in a lonely hut after the
fight. In this latter case he lost his eyesight in the field of Bealach
Leachta through the curse pronounced on him, and was subsequently killed in
the hut as mentioned.
A few lines of the poetical invitation to battle sent by Brian are worth
quotation:
"Go, Cogaran the intelligent!
Unto Maelmuadh of the piercing blue eye,
To the sons of Bran of enduring prosperity,
And to the sons of the Ui Eachdach.
.....
"Say unto the son of Bran that he fail not
After a full fortnight from to-morrow,
To come to Belach Lechta hither,
With the full muster of his army and his followers.
.....
"Whenever the son of Bran son of Cian shall offer
The Cumhal (blood fine) of my brother unto myself,
I will not accept from him hostages or studs,
But only himself in atonement for his guilt.
.....
"But if he do not come from the South
To Belach Lechta the evergreen,
Let him answer at his house
The Dal Cais [Footnote 283] and the son of Cennedigh.
[Footnote 283: This name imports the "Tribe or Family of Cas."]
"For him shall not be accepted from them
Gold, nor silver, nor land,
Nor hostages, nor cattle, O man:
Tell them this, and go!"
The Fight At Dunlavin.
There now remained no obstacle to the placing of the crown of Leath Mogha,
[Footnote 284] the southern portion of the island, on the head of the
brother and avenger of Mahon. He took hostages from the chiefs of Desmond,
(_Deas_, South, _Muimhe_, Munster,) allowed sundry Danish groups
of people to occupy places of trade, and finally, in the year 998, came to
a conference with Malachy II., King of Leath Cuinn or northern portion of
Erinn. We have no objection to Brian's triumphant procession up the
Shannon, but are not clear about the privilege assumed by his Dalcassians,
of making hostile visitations to districts on each side as they went
up-stream. However. Malachy had set them a bad example a short time before.
[Footnote 284: The boundary line of these portions connected the bays
of Dublin and Galway.]
{776}
The natives and Danes of Leinster getting up an insurrection soon after
this treaty with Malachy, Brian proceeded toward Dublin to bring them to
their duty. They met him at Glean-Mama (Glen of the Gap) near Dunlavin, but
sustained signal defeats at that pass and other points where they afterward
rallied. The curious in topographical details will find much to interest
them at pages cxliv., etc., of the introduction. The editor has made
himself well acquainted with the natural features of the neighborhood of
Dunlavin, having received some valuable information from Rev. Mr. Sherman,
formerly Roman Catholic curate in the neighborhood. The site of the old
fort is marked by an ancient cemetery, pagan tumuli, and fragments of stone
circles, called by the inhabitants, Pipers' Stones. We must here make use
of one of Dr. Todd's many and valuable archaeological notes:
"The Danes expected to reach Dunlavin, and perhaps to encamp there to
meet the forces of Meath (under Malachy) and Munster. But Brian met them
in the narrow defile of Glen Mama, thus cutting off their retreat. Here
there was no room for a regular engagement, and the flight must have been
immediate. The main body of the Danish army flew across the sloping land
through Kinsellastown, to the ford of Lemmonstown, where a stand seems to
have been made by them, and where it is said thousands fell in the
conflict. To this day their bones are turned up in the fields about the
ford, and some mounds on the banks of the stream are so filled up with
them that the people leave them untilled, as being sacred repositories of
the dead. The remnant of the defeated army fled to Holywood, about a mile
to the east of the ford, and thence to the ford of the Horse-pass on the
Liffey, about Poul a Phouca, (the Pooka's Hole,) where they were utterly
routed. At the close of the last century the wild lands of Upper Crihelpe
were reclaimed, and many relics of this retreat were brought to light,
chiefly in a line from _Tubber Glen_ (Well of the Glen) to
Lemmonstown ford. The workmen, coming on the pits where the bodies of the
slain lay buried, left them intact, closing them up again. In the defile
of Glen Mama, during the first week of May, 1864, one of these pits was
accidentally opened, bones were turned up, and also the fragments of a
Danish sword, (now in the possession of Dean Graves, Pres. R. I. A.) The
clay was found black and unctuous, as if thoroughly saturated with human
remains."
In the now nearly unknown cemetery of Crihelpe lie the remains of Harold
the Danish prince, by the side of a granite post, furnished with an
aperture for a wooden shaft, to convert it into a cross. It is called
_Cruisloe_, (_Crois laech_, warrior's cross,) and serves as a
rubbing-post for cattle.
This was considered one of the most important victories gained over the
foreigners, both from the number of the slain and the spoils
recovered--"Gold, silver, bronze, (_finndruine_,) precious stones,
carbuncle gems, buffalo horns, and beautiful goblets. Much also of various
vestures of all colors was found there likewise;" for, in the words of the
text,
"Never was there a fortress, or a fastness, or a mound, or a church, or a
sacred place, or a sanctuary, when it was taken by that howling, furious,
loathsome crew, which was not plundered.... Neither was there in
concealment under ground in Erinn, nor in the various solitudes belonging
to Fians [Footnote 285] or to fairies, anything that was not discovered
by these foreign, wonderful Denmarkians through paganism and idol
worship."
[Footnote 285: Here is evidence of the existence of legends of the
Fianna in the early part of the eleventh century.]
The tables were now completely turned on the foreigners. Instead of the
state of vassalage in which they had held the natives, we now find the
following state of things:
"There was not a winnowing sheet from Benn Edair (Howth) to Tech Duinn
[Footnote 286] in Western Erinn that had not a foreigner in bondage on
it, nor was there a quern (hand-mill) without a foreign woman, so that no
son of a soldier or of an officer of the Gaedhil deigned to put his hand
to a flail or to any labor on earth. Nor did a woman deign to put her
hands to the grinding of a quern, or to knead a cake, or to wash her
clothes, but had a foreign man or a foreign woman to work for them."
[Footnote 286: _House of Donn:_ the locality of the shipwreck of
Donn, son of Milesius, in the south-west of Kerry. Donn was venerated
as a fairy chief after his decease, the same as Aenghus of the Brugh,
Mananan, Mac Lir, etc.]
Unedifying Doings at Kincora.
After a sojourn from Great to Little Christmas (February 2d) in Dublin,
Brian returned to Kincora, (_Ceann Coraidh_, head of the weir.)
{777}
Meantime Sitric, son of Anlaf, the defeated Danish prince, fled to the
court of Aedh, at Aileach, (north east of Donegal,) and afterward to that
of Achy, king of East Ulster, at Down-patrick, but neither king would
afford him protection, such was the awe of Brian's power. So, like a brave
and wise chief, he proceeded directly to the Court of his conqueror, and
requested peace and friendship. These were immediately granted, both from
the inherent nobility of Brian's disposition and his desire to have a
friendly and devoted governor for the distant city of Ath Cliath.
To strain the bonds that held his new ally to him still tighter, he gave
him his daughter in marriage. This might be prudent or the reverse, but to
take Sitric's mother Gormflaith (blue-_eyed_ noble lady) for his
second wife showed little wisdom. This lady, sister to Maelmordha, King of
Leinster, had for her first husband Olaf Cuaran, to whom she bore the
Prince Sitric. Her next spouse was Malachy, King of Leath Cuinn, already
more than once mentioned. After presenting him with a son, Prince Connor,
she was repudiated, and, very little to Brian's domestic comfort, he was
selected for her third experiment in matrimony. After sharing his royal bed
and board for a season, she was repudiated the second time, and then
probably went to add to the discomfort of the fortress of her son in
Dublin, or her brother at Naas, or Dunlavin, or Dinn Righ, (Ballyknockan,
near Leighlin Bridge.)
"The Njal Saga calls her Kormlada, and describes her as the fairest of
all women, and best gifted in everything that was not in her own power,
that is, in all physical and natural endowments, but she did all things
ill over which she had any power, that is, in her moral
conduct."--_Burnt Njal_, ii. 323.
We find at the period in question frequent marriage alliances between Irish
and Danish families. In fact, when a foreign family or tribe had contrived
to secure a footing in the country, and the first bitter dislike had blown
over, the native chiefs began to look on them as they did each other, and
in many cases a stronger feeling of friendship connected the foreign chief
and his people to some neighboring native prince or flaith than prevailed
among themselves. This was also the case afterward between natives and
Anglo-Normans. Nothing could exceed the strength of ties that bound the
individuals of a tribe to each other and to their chief, and in most cases
the chiefs to the provincial kings, but enthusiasm for the cause of the
Ard-Righ or for the general weal of the island was an exceedingly scarce
commodity. The same indifferent spirit still exists.
The great chiefs proceedings for some time after these occurrences seem to
have been prompted as much by ambition at least as by a national spirit.
Still he did not depart from the generally observed rule among Gaelic kings
and chiefs, that is, sending warning to those on whom they intended to make
war, and appointing the time and place of battle. He gave Malachy plainly
to understand that he should cede to him the dignity of Ard-Righ. The
astonished sovereign claimed time to consult the princes of the North and
his own chiefs, but neither from the Kinel Conaill [Footnote 287] nor the
Kinel Eoghain could he get due encouragement, and he was obliged to
acknowledge the humiliating fact to the southern chief.
[Footnote 287: In the original is given the poetical adjuration of Gilla
Comghaill O'Sleibhin to Hugh, king of Hy Conaill, to join Malachy in his
opposition to Brian. This King of Munster is treated in it as the King
of Saxon-land in aftertimes by a bard of the fifteenth or sixteenth
century. For a wonder the Ulster king did not yield to the power of
poesy on that occasion.]
Still the latter was not disposed to take the brave prince at a
disadvantage, and gave him a twelvemonth to mature his plans. The interview
took place in Brian's camp, Malachy being accompanied by twelve score
horsemen, and, when the agreement was made, the southern king proceeded
homeward, first making a present of 240 horses to his future vassal. The
Meath warriors would not deign to conduct each a led horse back to the
royal fort, and Malachy was unwilling to offend Brian by refusing them.
[Footnote 288]
[Footnote 288: Petty chiefs or princes paying tribute to their
superiors received in turn gifts from the great men, in fact, were
obliged to receive them--a genuine Irish procedure. (See the Book of
Rights.)]
{778}
He therefore begged of Murchad to accept them in token of his good-will,
and the prince graciously assented. Malachy was not in a better condition
at the year's end, and so the sovereignty of the island passed into Brian's
hands without bloodshed. We have not space to treat in detail his after
_visitations_ to the north, and his circuit of the kingdom to receive
hostages and confirm his authority. When at Armagh, he gratified the
ecclesiastical powers there by a donation of twenty ounces of gold, and by
directing his secretary, the Abbot O' Carroll, to make this entry in their
book in the Latin language. The curious may still read the original at page
16, BB, in the Book of Armagh, a collection begun in the eighth century:
"St. Patrick, going up to heaven, commanded that all the fruit of his
labor, as well of baptisms as of causes and of alms, should be carried to
the apostolic city which is called _Scotice_ (in Gaelic) ARDD MACHA.
So I have found it in the book collections of the Scots, (the Gael.) I
have written, (this,) that is, (I,) Calvus Perennis (_Mael-Suthain_,
Bald for Ever) in the sight (under the eyes) of Brian, emperor of the
Scots; and what I have written he has determined for all the kings of
Maceriae, (Cashel or Munster.)"
Compensations.
If there is extant a thorough believer in all the facts related by the
bards, he had better refrain from questioning the editor on the subject of
the beautiful and innocent maiden of the gold ring and snow-white wand. The
chronicler coming to this point in the history thus expressed himself:
"After the banishment of the foreigners out of all Erinn, and after Erinn
was reduced to a state of peace, a lone woman came from Torach in the
North to Cliodhna [Footnote 289] (pr. Cleena) in the south of Erinn,
carrying a ring of gold on a horse-rod, and she was neither robbed nor
insulted. Whereupon the poet sang:
"From Torach to pleasant Cliodhna
And carrying with her a ring of gold,
In the time of Brian of the bright side, fearless,
A lone woman made the circuit of Erinn."
[Footnote 289: Cleena was in the first rank of Munster fairies. Her
visits were much disliked by the people. _Tonn Cliodhna_
(Cleena's Wave) in one of the Kerry bays was the dread of the native
seamen.]
It cannot be denied that Brian was a usurper with respect to Leath Cuinn;
but how much better was it for the people of the whole land to be under the
undivided sway of one wise, noble-minded, and energetic prince, assured of
peace, and opportunities of carrying on the ordinary business of life
undisturbed, and improving their condition, than to be merely enduring life
from day to day, not knowing the moment they should be called on to go on a
marauding expedition or to defend their corn, their cattle, and their own
lives from a marauding party. We quote a few of the peaceful exploits of
the best and greatest of our ancient princes:
"By him were erected noble churches in Erinn and their sanctuaries. He
sent professors and masters to teach wisdom and knowledge, and to buy
books beyond the sea and the great ocean, because the writings and books
in every church, etc., had been burned, and thrown into the water by the
plunderers from the beginning. And Brian himself gave the price of books
to every one separately who went on this service.... By him were erected
the church of Cell Dálua, (Killaloe,) and the church of Inis Cealtra,
(Scattery Island,) and the bell-tower of Tuam Greine, [Footnote 290] etc.
etc. By him were made bridges and causeways and high roads. By him were
strengthened the duns and fortresses and islands.... and royal forts of
Mumhain. He built also the fortification of Caisel of the kings,.... and
Cean Coradh, and Borumha in like manner. He continued in this way
prosperously, peaceful, giving banquets, hospitable, just-judging;
wealthily, venerated, chastely, and with devotion, and with law, and with
rules among the clergy; with prowess and with valor, with renown among
the laity, and fruitful, powerful, firm, secure for fifteen years in the
chief sovereignty of Erinn, as Gilla Maduda (O'Cassidy, Abbot of
Ardbreccan) said:
'Brian the flame over Banbha of the variegated flowers,
Without gloom, without guile, without treachery,
Fifteen years in full prosperity.'"
[Footnote 290: Fort of the Sun--Tomgreany in Clare--a copy of one of
the Danaan round towers. There is at present not a trace of it.]
{779}
The Gathering of the Eagles.
Toward the festival of St. Patrick in the ensuing spring, all that had
remained loyal to the reigning monarch were directing their course to the
plain before Dublin. Sitric, and his mother Gormflaith, and Maelmordha
busied themselves collecting allies from all quarters. Sigurd, Earl of
Orkney, came to the aid of his countrymen on the condition of getting the
privilege of being Gormflaith's fourth husband, the second and third still
living, and one being near eighty years of age. Brodar, about whose name
and the locality of whose earldom there is some uncertainty, was also a
postulant for her hand, and Sitric made no scruple of promising it,
expecting, as may be supposed, that one of the wooers, after doing good
service in the battle, might be very indifferent on the subject at its
close:
"Brodar, according to the Njal Saga, had been a Christian man and a
mass-deacon by consecration, but he had thrown off his faith, and become
'God's dastard' and worshipped heathen fiends; and he was of all men most
skilled in sorcery. He had that coat of mail on which no steel would
bite. He was both tall and strong, and had such long locks that he tucked
them under his belt. His hair was black."
This fierce-looking renegade commanded the foreign Danes and auxiliaries in
the front of the battle, being supported by Earl Sigurd and other chiefs. A
battalion of the Dublin Danes had their position in the rear of these,
supported by the chieftains of ships. Maelmordha and his chiefs occupied
the rear, commanding the North-Leinster men and the forces of Hy
Ceansalach, [Footnote 291] (Wicklow and Wexford.)
[Footnote 291: The first chief who bore this name had killed a druid,
accompanying the sacrilegious deed with a fiendish grin on his
features. "That vile expression on your face," said the dying man,
"shall give a name to your posterity while grass grows." _Ceann
salach_ is literally _dirty head_. Other great families have
not escaped nick-names. _Cameron_ is crooked nose;
_Cromwell_, crooked eye. (_Hy Kinsala_ is Kinsella's
country.)]
Directly opposed to Brodar's front battalions were the tried men of
North-Munster, the Dalcassians under the command of the invincible
Murchadh. The battalion behind this front array consisted of other Munster
troops commanded by the Prince of the Waterford Decies. The nobles of
Connacht, with their brave tribesmen, occupied the rear of the Irish war
force.
The patriotic chronicler, having brought the combatants face to face on the
field which was to be the crown of his work, felt all his poetic rage arise
against the foreigners, whom he abuses as heartily as Goldsmith's bailiff
did the French:
"These were the chiefs, and outlaws, and Dannars of all the west of
Europe, having no reverence, veneration, respect, or mercy, for God or
for man, for church or for sanctuary, at the head of cruel, villainous,
ferocious, plundering, hard-hearted, wonderful Danmarkians, selling and
hiring themselves for gold, and silver, and other treasures as well. And
there was not one villain or robber of that two thousand, (the troops of
Brodor and his brother Anlaf,) who had not polished, strong,
triple-plated, glittering armor of refined iron, or of cool uncorroding
brass, encasing their sides and bodies from head to foot."
In the description of the arms and armor of the combatants we suspect our
authority of some inaccuracy. Avoiding the forest of epithets bristling all
over the glowing description, we are told that the blue-green, hard-hearted
pagans used crimsoned, murderous, poisoned arrows anointed and browned in
the blood of dragons, and toads, and water-snakes, and otters, (the poor
otter! he did not deserve this,) and scorpions. They had barbarous quivers,
yellow-shining bows, green, sharp, rough, dark spears, polished, pliable,
triple-plated corselets of refined iron and uncorroding brass. Their swords
were heavy, hard-striking, strong, and powerful.
{780}
To the Gaelic warriors he allows glittering, _poisoned_, [Footnote
292] well-riveted spears, with beautiful handles of white hazel; darts
furnished with silken strings, to be cast overhand; long, glossy, white
shirts; comfortable (comfort in battle!) long vests; well-adjusted,
many-colored tunics over these; variegated, brazen-embossed shields, with
bronze chains; crested, golden helms, set with precious stones, on the
heads of chiefs and princes; glaring, broad, well-set Lochlann axes, to hew
plate and mail. Every sword had about thirty glorious qualities attached to
it. [Footnote 293]
[Footnote 292: Venomous and poisonous in the bardic lays were mere
epithets applied to weapons from their aptitude to inflict mortal
wounds.]
[Footnote 293: It is somewhat strange that the chronicler has not
afforded even the _luirech_ (the leathern jack with its iron or
bronze scales) to his heroes. These loricas are frequently mentioned in
the old lays.]
The inferiority of the Irish warriors in defensive arms gave little concern
to their historian. Armed or unarmed, they were a match for the world.
(This under certain conditions is our own belief.)
"Woe to those who attacked them if they could have avoided attacking
them, for it was swimming against a stream, it was pummelling an oak with
fists, it was a hedge against the swelling of a spring tide, it was a
string upon sand or a sunbeam, it was the fist against a sunbeam to
attempt to give them battle or combat."
Day at Clontarf.
The battle began with a single combat, there being a previous challenge in
the case. Plait, the foreign warrior, came before his lines and shouted,
"Faras (_where is?_ an attempt at Danish) Donall?" "Here, thou
reptile!" said the Irish champion. The battle was sharp and short, the two
warriors falling on the sod at the same moment, their left hands clutching
each other's hair, and their hearts transfixed by their swords.
Heaven and earth are ransacked for sublime images to give an idea of the
dread struggle that took place between the iron-covered and the defenceless
warriors on each side:
"To nothing small (we quote our text) could be likened the firm, stern,
sudden, thunder motion, and the stout, valiant, haughty, billow roll of
these people on both sides. I could compare it only to the boundless,
variegated wonderful firmament that has cast a heavy, sparkling shower of
flaming stars over the surface of the earth, or to the startling,
fire-darting roar of the clouds and the heavenly orbs, confounded and
crashed by all the winds in their contention against each other."
It was a terrible spectacle without doubt--the din and clang of sword and
axe on shields and helms, the cries of the combatants, and the lurid
flashes from the polished surfaces of the arms, and the effect of all
intensified by dying groans, and the sight of bodies writhing in agony as
life was about to quit them. It is not so easy to understand, taking
distance into account, how the following circumstance could occur:
"It was attested by the foreigners and foreign women who were watching
from the battlements of Ath Cliath, that they used to see flashes of fire
from them in the air on all sides."
Malachy's forces remained inactive during the main part of the fight at
least. Dr. Todd acquits him, however, of treachery to the national cause.
We quote some passages of a description of the fight imputed to him:
"There was a field and a ditch between us and them, and the sharp wind of
the spring coming over them toward us. And it was not a longer time than
a cow could be milked that we continued there, when not one person of the
two hosts could recognize another.... We were covered, as well our heads
as our faces, and our clothes, with the drops of the gory blood, carried
by the force of the sharp, cold wind which passed over them to us.... Our
spears over our heads had become clogged and bound with long locks of
hair, which the wind forced upon us when cut away by well-aimed swords
and gleaming axes, so that it was half occupation to us to endeavor to
disentangle and cast them off."
Were we a powerful, well-armed warrior standing by the side of Maelseachlin
(Malachy) on that day, we would certainly have endeavored to find a better
occupation for his hands. Hear this bit of Pecksniffism uttered by him:
"It is one of the problems of Erinn whether the valor of those who
sustained that crushing assault was greater than ours who bore the sight
of it without running distracted before the winds, or fainting."
{781}
Conaing, Brian's nephew, and Maelmordha, fell that day by each other's
swords. The Connacht forces and the Danes of Dublin assailed each other so
furiously that only about a hundred of the Irish survived, while the Danes
scarcely left a score. Murchadh's exploits, could we trust the chronicler
and Malachy, could be rivalled only by those of Achilles of old. He went
forward and backward through the enemies' ranks, mowing them down even as a
person might level rows of upright weeds. He got his mortal wound at last
from the knife of a Dane whom he had struck to the earth. He survived,
however, till he had received the consolations of religion.
About sunset the foreigners, notwithstanding their superiority in armor,
were utterly defeated. Striving to escape by their ships, they were
prevented by the presence of the full tide, and those who flew toward the
city were either intercepted by the same tide or by Maelseachluin's
[Footnote 294] men. Dr. Todd inclines to this last theory. The heroic youth
Torloch, son of Murchadh, pursuing the fugitive Danes into the sea, met his
death at a weir.
[Footnote 294: This name implies the Tonsured, that is, devoted
disciple of Saint Sechnal, contemporary with St. Patrick, and patron of
Dunshaughlin.]
The aged monarch, while engaged at his prayers for the blessing of Heaven
on the arms of his people, was murdered just at the moment of victory by
the chief Brodar, who in a few minutes afterward was torn to pieces by the
infuriated soldiers crowding to the spot.
The power of the foreigners was certainly crushed in this great and
memorable combat, but disorder seized on the general weal of the island
again. South-Munster renewed its contentions with North-Munster, and even
its own chiefs with each other. Donnchad, Brian's remaining son, though a
brave prince, had not the abilities of his father or elder brother. Malachy
quietly resumed the sovereignty of the island, but found that the
annoyances from turbulent petty kings and the still remaining foreigners
were not at an end.
We join our regret to that of the editor that one of the unromantic books
of Annals--that of Tiernach, or Loch Cé, or that of Ulster, has not
inaugurated the publication of our ancient chronicles. Dr. Todd has done
all that could be done by the most profound and enlightened scholar to
disentangle the true from the false through the narrative by shrewd
guesses, by sound judgment in weighing the merits and probabilities of
conflicting accounts, by comparing the romantic statements with those set
forth in the genuine annals and the foreign authorities, whether Icelandic
or Anglo-Saxon. Many events in our old archives, pronounced by shallow and
supercilious critics to have had no foundation, are found to possess the
stamp of truth by the care taken by Dr. Todd and his fellow-archaeologists
in comparing our own annals and those of the European nations with whom we
had formerly either friendly or hostile relations.
Besides the anxious care bestowed on the comparison of the different MSS.
and the translation, and the very useful commentary, the editor has
furnished in the appendix the fragment (with translation) in the Book of
Leinster, the Chronology and Genealogy of the Kings of Ireland and of
Munster during the Danish period, Maelseachluin's account of the fight of
Clontarf, in full from the Brussels MS., and the genealogy of the various
Scandinavian chiefs who were mixed with our concerns for two centuries. The
accounts given in detail of the fortunes of Sitric and others of these
chiefs are highly interesting. The present volume will be more generally
read than any of the mere chronicles, into whose composition entered more
conscience and judgment--on account of the many poetic and romantic
passages scattered through it. Let us hope that it is not the last on which
the labors of the eminent scholar, its editor, will be employed, for we
cannot conceive any literary task more ably and satisfactorily executed
than the production of the Wars of the Gaedhil and the Gaill.
{782}
The Fatal Sisters, translated by Gray from the Norse, refer to the day at
Clontarf. We quote three of the verses:
"Ere the ruddy sun be set
Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,
Blade with clattering buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.
......
"Low the dauntless earl [Footnote 295] is laid,
Gored with many a gaping wound;
Fate demands a nobler head,
Soon a king [Footnote 296] shall bite the ground.
[Footnote 295: Earl Sigurd.]
[Footnote 296: Brian.]
"Long his loss shall Erinn weep,
Ne'er again his likeness see;
Long her strains in sorrow steep,
Strains of immortality!"
The appendix added by Dr. Todd to the work is exceedingly interesting and
valuable, containing among other matters a carefully arranged genealogical
list of the Irish princes and the foreign chiefs during the Danish wars,
and an abstract of the fortunes of several of these kings. The accounts of
the battle of Clontarf differed so much in form in the two MSS., that is,
the Dublin and Brussels copies, that, instead of pointing out the various
readings in notes to the body of the narrative, the editor has removed the
account in the Brussels MSS., purported to have been given by Malachy, to
the end of the book. Passages are worth preservation as literary
curiosities. If Malachy felt any ill to Brian for wresting his independent
sovereignty from him, there is not a trace of it discoverable in his
narrative. Thus he speaks of the noble heir-apparent, Murchadh, who
disdained to wear even a shield.
Malachy's Account of the Battle.
"The royal warrior had with him two swords, that is, a sword in each
hand, for he was the last man in Erinn who was equally expert in the use
of the right hand and of the left... He would not retreat one foot before
the race of all mankind for any reason in the world, except this reason
alone, that he could not help dying of his wounds. He was the last man in
Erinn who was a match for a hundred. He was the last man who killed a
hundred in one day in Erinn. His step was the last step which true valor
took. Seven like Murchadh were equal to Mac Samhain," etc.
Then the writer indulged in a heroic series in geometrical progression,
each hero being worth seven such as the man who preceded him, and the
greatest of all being Hector of Troy. All native bards, school-masters, and
school boys, who have flourished since first the siege of Troy was heard of
in Ireland, have fixed on Hector as the matchless model of heroism,
chivalric faith, courtesy, and tenderness; most of them have borne a
cordial hatred to the son of Peleus. Has the feeling originated from the
pseudo-work of Dares the Phrygian priest having arrived in the country
before Homer's "Tale of Troy Divine"? The theory in the text would make
Hector many times superior to Hercules, the heroic terms in the sevenfold
progression being Murchadh, Mac Samhain, Lugha Lagha, Conall Cearnach,
Lugha Lamhfada, (_Long Hand_,) Hector! After the list comes this
rather startling assertion: "These were the degrees of championship since
the beginning of the world, and before Hector there was no illustrious
championship."
"Murchadh was the Hector of Erinn in valor, in championship, in
generosity, in munificence. He was the pleasant, intelligent, affable,
accomplished Samson of the Hebrews in his own career and in his time. He
was the second powerful Hercules, who destroyed and exterminated the
serpents and monsters of Erinn.... He was the gate of battle and the
sheltering tree, the crushing sledge-hammer of the enemies of his
fatherland and of his race during his career.
"When this very valiant, very great, royal champion, and plundering,
brave, powerful hero saw the crushing and the repulse that the Danars and
pirates gave to the Dal Cais, it operated upon him like death or a
permanent blemish; and he was seized with boiling, terrible anger, and
his bird of valor and championship arose, and he made a brave, vigorous,
sudden rush at a battalion of the pirates, like a violent, impetuous,
furious ox that, is about being caught, or like a fierce, tearing, swift,
all-powerful lioness deprived of her cubs, or like the roll of a deluging
torrent, that shatters and smashes everything that resists it; and he
made a hero's breach and a soldier's field through the battalions of the
pirates. And the historians of the foreigners testified after him that
there fell fifty by his right, and fifty by his left hand in that onset.
Nor did he administer more than one blow to any of them; and neither
shield, nor corselet, nor helmet, resisted any of these blows, which
clave bodies and skulls alike. Thus three times he forced his way
backward through the battalions in that manner."
{783}
Sitric, the Danish prince, married as before mentioned to a daughter of
Brian, is described as looking at the fight from his Dublin watch-tower,
with his wife at his side. Seeing the mass of plumages and hair shorn off
by the gleaming weapons, and flying over the heads in the wind, he
exclaimed, "Well do the foreigners reap the field, for many is the sheaf
whirled aloft over them." But in the evening he was obliged to endure the
sight of his foreign friends and allies fleeing into the sea "like a herd
of cows in heat from sultry weather, or from gnats, or from flies. And they
were pursued quickly and lightly into the sea, where they were with great
violence drowned, so that they lay in heaps and in hundreds and in
battalions." Sitric's wife had not yet learned to feel strong sympathy with
her husband's politics; and, if he had insisted on her presence in order to
be a spectator of the defeat of her countrymen, he was sadly disappointed:
"Then it was that Brian's daughter, the wife of Amhlaibh's son, said: 'It
appears to me,' said she, 'that the foreigners have gained their
inheritance.' [Footnote 297] 'What is that, O girl?' said Amhlaibh's son.
'The foreigners are only going into the sea as is hereditary to them.' 'I
know not whether it is on them, but nevertheless they tarry not to be
milked.'
[Footnote 297: Sitric had used that expression at an early hour of the
fight, when he imagined the Danes were gaining on their enemy.]
"The son of Amhlaibh was angered with her, and he gave her a blow which
knocked a tooth out of her head."
Murcadh's death after a fatiguing day of fight has been already related.
While the fierce struggle was going on, thus was the brave and devout old
monarch employed:
"When the combatants met, his cushion was spread under him, and he opened
his psalter, and he began to recite his psalms and his prayers behind the
battle, and there was no one with him but Laideen, his own horseboy.
Brian said to his attendant, 'Watch thou the battle and the combatants
while I recite my psalms.' Brian then said fifty psalms, fifty prayers,
and fifty paters, and he asked the attendant how the battalions were
circumstanced. The attendant answered, 'I see them, and closely
confounded are they, and each of them has come within grasp of the other.
And not more loud to me would be the blows in Tomar's wood if seven
battalions were cutting it down, than are the resounding blows on the
heads, and bones, and skulls of them.' Brian asked how was the banner of
Murchadh. 'It stands,' said the attendant, 'and the banners of the Dal
Cais round it.'... His cushion was readjusted under Brian, and he said
fifty psalms, fifty prayers, and fifty paters, and he asked the attendant
how the battalions were. The attendant said, 'There lives not a man who
could distinguish one of them from the other, for the greater part of the
hosts on either side are fallen, and those that are alive are so
covered--their heads, and legs, and garments, and drops of crimson
blood--that the father could not recognize his own son there.' And again
he asked how was the banner of Murchadh. The attendant answered, 'It is
far from Murchadh, and has gone through the hosts westward, and it is
stooping and inclining. Brian said, 'Erinn declines on that account.
Nevertheless so long as the men of Erinn shall see that banner, its valor
and its courage shall be upon every man of them.' Brian's cushion was
readjusted, and he said fifty psalms, fifty prayers, and fifty paters,
and the fighting continued during all that time. Brian then cried out to
the attendant, how was the banner of Murchad, and how were the
battalions. The attendant answered, 'It appears to me like as if Tomar's
wood was being cut down, and set on fire, its underwood and its young
trees, and as if the seven battalions had been unceasingly destroying it
for a month, and its immense trees and its great oaks left standing.'"
Later Exploits of Sitric of the Silky Beard.
A year after the battle, Malachy assaulted Dublin, and burned all the
buildings outside the fortress, within which Sitric lay secure. In 1018,
Sitric blinded Bran or Braoin, his own first cousin, son of Maelmordha,
thus incapacitating him to rule. The poor prince subsequently went abroad
and died in a monastery at Cologne. This Bran was ancestor of the _Ua
Brain_ or O'Byrn of Wicklow.
{784}
Next year he went on enlarging his bad ways by plundering Kells, slaying
many people in the very church, and carrying away spoils and prisoners. In
1021, his Danes and himself got a signal defeat at Derne Mogorog,
(Delgany,) by the son of Dunlaing, King of Leinster. In 1022, he was again
defeated by King Malachy in a land battle, and at sea by Niall, son of
Eochaidh, (_pr._ Achy or Uchy,) king of Hy Conaill. In 1027, he made
an unsuccessful raid into Meath, and next year went on a pilgrimage to
Rome. Two years later he attended the funeral of his mother Gormflaith. His
pilgrimage had not quenched his thirst for forays, for in 1031 he plundered
Ardbraccan, and carried off much cattle. Next year he was victorious at the
mouth of the Boyne over the men of Meath, Louth, and Monaghan. In 1035,
twenty-one years after the great fight, he abdicated in favor of his nephew
Eachmarcach, (Rich in Horses,) and went abroad, (where is not said.) His
death as well as that of his daughter Fineen, a nun, is recorded in 1042,
the last seven years of life having probably been spent in religious
retirement.
Irish historians and archaeologists will find valuable assistance in the
appendix, whenever they are occupied with the genealogies of the Irish or
foreign kings and chiefs who flourished during the two centuries preceding
the day at Clontarf.
------
From The Month.
Rhoda.
A Devonshire Eclogue.
"I am declined
Into the vale of years; yet that's not much."_--Othello_.
It was the deep midsummer; the calm lake
Lay shining in the sun; the glittering ripples,
That scarce bare record of the wind's light wings,
Reached not the shore, where, shadowed by huge oaks,
The clear still water blended with the land
In undistinguished union. All was still,
Save where at little distance a bright spring
Leapt out from a fern-coroneted rock,
And ran with cheerful prattle its short course
(Making the silence deeper for its noise)
To quiet slumber in the quiet lake.
Down to the margin of the water, slow
Pacing along the shadow-dappled grass
Into the trees' green twilight, steadfastly
The while his eyes bent down upon the ground,
Sir Richard Conway came. No longer young;
A statesman of repute; in council wise;
Of bitter speech, but not unkindly heart;
Of stately presence still. He in his youth
Had wooed and wedded a fair girl; so fair,
So gentle, and so good that when she died
His heart and love died too, and in her grave
Lay down, and he came forth a stricken man.
{785}
But this was long ago: his children grew;
He watched them, but they never saw his heart;
They dreamed not of the proud man's tenderness,
But went into the highway of the world,
And left him to his utter loneliness.
Years passed: sometimes his solitary heart
Sent out a cry of agony for love;
But no one heard--he sternly stifled it:
Treading his path with dignity, he lived
In pride and honor, and he lived alone.
He prayed for love, and in his autumn days
Love came upon him; but in such a sort
As, if a man had told him it would come,
He would have laughed in scorn. But so it is;
God gives us our desire, and sends withal
Sharp chastening as his wisdom sees most fit.
Rhoda, the fairest of a sisterhood
Who were all fair, lived hard by the great house,
Near to the lake; the daughter of a pair
Not rich, yet blessed with slender competence.
And sometimes in the park, or in the house,
Whereto chance errands brought her, she would meet
Sir Richard, who to such as her showed ever
A gracious kindness, and would give to her
A friendly greeting, sometimes with a word
Of question of her needs or her desires,
Followed by such slight interchange of talk
As might befit such meetings--nothing more.
Indeed he could not fail, as time wore on,
To note that with each year she lovelier grew:
A pale and delicate fairy, exquisite
As some rare picture, with pathetic eyes
Veiled underneath long lashes; their shy glance
Seemed to reveal a soul whose tender depths
Were unprofaned by any earthly thought.
Nor was it seeming only: she was good;
And fenced her beauty with simplicity,
Meek sense, and modest wisdom.
{786}
This he saw--
He could not choose but see it; and he felt,
When she was near, as if some soothing strain
Breathed round him; and his secret soul was swayed
With unseen power, as sways the billowy corn
Swept by the warm caresses of the wind.
He knew what this portended. All in vain
The proud man struggled with his heart: he loved,
And knew that he loved, Rhoda; all in vain
He strove to turn away from her fair face;
He only gazed more tenderly: in vain
Strove to speak coldly when he met her; still
His deep voice trembled, as his heart beat fast,
And from his eyes looked out his yearning soul.
Of all this conflict Rhoda saw but little;
The less, belike, for conflict of her own:
Mysterious longings kindled by his voice;
Shy pleasure in his presence; constant thought
(Half reverence, half compassion, tender always)
Of this grave, courteous, noble, lonely man,
Who looked so great, so sorrowful, but still
With many a mute yet clearly speaking sign
Sued for her love with sad humility.
These things she never uttered to her heart;
And if her thoughts half spoke, unwaveringly
She put them by, and simply went her way.
But he could fight no longer; and to-day
He waited by the water, for he knew
Rhoda would pass that way, and he resolved
To tell her all his secret, and to learn
His future from her lips, whether they spoke
Hope or despair.
He had not waited long,
When through the park, along the trembling lake,
Into the oaks' soft shadows, Rhoda came;
So bright, so fresh, so beautiful, she seemed
To bring a golden light into the gloom.
Sir Richard trembled, and his breath came quick,
His pulse throbbed wildly, and his eyes grew dim;
Yet, mastered by his iron will, his words
Came calmly forth to greet her: at the sound,
Surprised to find him here, she started back,
Then murmuring something hurriedly, went on.
He gently staid her, saying in tenderest tones:
"One moment, Rhoda--one--could you but know--"
She looked into his face with wondering eyes,
Then bashfully withdrew them; for she knew
At once his secret from his pleading voice
And his dark eyes' ineffable tenderness.
"I did not mean to startle you," he said;
"Nay, do not tremble; could you see my soul,
The tempest there would make your own show calm.
Oh! stay--forgive me when the heart beats fast.
The tongue is slow--I love you! Fewest words
Are best for such confession. Can you love?"
{787}
But Rhoda could not answer. Naught was heard
Except the gurgling of the silver spring,
When thus in saddest accents he resumed:
"Rhoda, you see in me a man sore smitten,
Whose youth and spring were buried long ago--
One who has had no summer in his heart,
Whose autumn days are lonely, and who prayed
(Till you relumed the sunshine of his life)
For the swift-closing winter of the grave.
Long have I kept my secret to myself--
From no mean shame, my girl; for well I know,
Were you my wife, mine were the gain, not yours;
But silver hairs blend ill with waving gold,
Nor would I bring a blight upon your life.
Why have I spoken? 'Twas a selfish thought
To share with you the burden of my gloom,
O'ershadowing your young years--an idle dream
That one so old and desolate as I
Could stir the heart of blessed youthfulness.
There--you have heard my secret. Pity me:
I know you will not mock me. So, farewell!
Go, Rhoda, with my blessing on your head!
I to my loveless life return alone,
Forlorn, but uncomplaining."
He turned to go,
But Rhoda, who had heard him to this word,
Could now endure no more; she caught his arm,
She gazed at him with fond eyes full of tears.
"Oh! not alone!" she said "we go together;
If a poor girl like me--" She said no more,
But turned and hid her face upon his heart.
He clasped her, looking thankfully to heaven,
Then stooped and kissed her: "Rhoda, my own wife,
Bear with me for my love!" The trees stood still,
Yielding no faintest whispering. They came forth
Out of the solemn grove into the sun;
The soft blue sky had not one film of cloud;
And as they walked in silence, they could hear
Far off the happy stockdove's brooding note.
And so Sir Richard won his lovely wife.
Once more the old house brightened; stately rooms
Rang with the unaccustomed sound of mirth:
And still as years went on, Sir Richard wore
Always an air of serious cheerfulness;
While baby voices gladdened all the place,
And Rhoda's lovely face was never sad.
Let the grim rock give forth a living stream,
And still boon nature crowns its ruggedness
With flowers and fairy grasses.
{788}
Near the park
Towers up a tract of granite; the huge hills
Bear on their broad flanks right into the mists
Vast sweeps of purple heath and yellow furze.
It is the home of rivers, and the haunt
Of great cloud-armies, borne on ocean blasts
Far-stretching squadrons, with colossal stride
Marching from peak to peak, or lying down
Upon the granite beds that crown the heights.
Yet for the dwellers near them these bleak moors
Have some strange fascination; and I own
That, like a strong man's sweetness, to myself
Pent in the smoky city, worn with toil,
When the sun rends the veil, or flames unveiled
Over those wide waste uplands, or when mists
Fill the great vales like lakes, then break and roll
Slow lingering up the hills as living things,
Then do they stir and lift the soul; and then
Their colors, and their rainbows, and their clouds,
And their fierce winds, and desolate liberty,
Seem endless beauty and untold delight.
So was it with Sir Richard: from the park
And from the cares of state he often went
With Rhoda, to enjoy some happy hours
There face to face with nature--far away
From all the din and fume of human life,
From paltry cares and interests, that corrupt
Or keep the soul in chains. They may be seen
On a great hill, on cloudless summer days,
Or when the sun in autumn melts the clouds,
Gazing on that magnificent region, spread
In majesty below them: teeming plains
And wood-clothed gorges of the hills in front;
Behind them sea-like ridges of bare moor,
Some in brown shade, some white with blazing light;
Above, enormous rocks piled up in play
By giants; all around, authentic relics
Of those drear ages, when half-naked men
Roamed these dim regions, waging doubtful war
With wolves and bears; and on the horizon's verge
The pale blue waste of ocean. There they sit,
Sir Richard and his Rhoda, side by side
Their hearts aglow with love, their souls bowed down
In thankful adoration, scarce recalled
From musings deep and tender, by the shouts
Of two fair children playing at their feet.
October, 1866.
------
{789}
Original.
Protestant Attacks Upon The Bible. [Footnote 298]
[Footnote 298: Liber Librorum: Its Structure, Limitations, and Purpose.
A Friendly Communication to a Reluctant Sceptic. New-York: C. Scribner
& Co. 1867.]
The work, the title of which we subjoin, though pretending on the surface
to be an appeal, in favor of the Bible, is, in truth, one of the most
serious attacks made upon it that has come under our notice; and would be,
for a Protestant, one of the most dangerous books he could read. With a
Catholic its arguments would have no force whatever, being based upon the
unphilosophical principle of private judgment on revealed truth. We should
say that, take it as a whole, it is a very clever attempt to found a purely
subjective religion, which might call itself Christianity with equal
consistency as do many so-called Christian denominations of our day, and
which would consequently ignore all dogmatic authority and make use of the
Holy Scriptures only as a means of edification.
We cannot see how a Protestant can escape the conclusions drawn by the
author, unless he abandons his Protestantism for Catholic authority or for
the most irresponsible individuality; and, if the author has really been
sincere in his professed desire to reassure the troubled mind of his
reluctant sceptic, and inspire him with respect for the Bible as the
revealed word of God, we cannot but think he counts upon his sceptic's
possessing very limited reasoning powers. His entire argument throughout is
based upon postulates which we are sure no sceptic and certainly no
Catholic is prepared to grant. For it is assumed both that we are, or ought
to be, Christians as a matter of course, independent of authoritative
teaching, and that the inspiration of the Bible is to be taken for granted
without extrinsic proof. Moreover, that each individual is possessed of a
verifying faculty which enables him to appropriate of its contents just so
much and in so far as God wishes it to be true to him.
To assert that a man can be or has become a Christian without having been
so taught is simply absurd. That Christianity is, of all religious systems,
the most perfectly conformable to the reason and spiritual needs of
mankind, fulfilling, perfecting, and completing human nature, is
indisputable; but a man is not born a Christian any more than he is born a
Mohammedan or a Buddhist. What the author of this work seems contented to
take as Christianity will be found broad enough to suit any one who has a
fancy to dignify the mutilated traditions to which he yet clings by that
title; but we think very few will consent to accept their own convictions
as sufficient proof of the divine truth of what they believe, or bow to the
Holy Scriptures as the inspired word of God upon no other authority than a
sense of its harmony in doctrine and morals with what they individually
hold. The stream is not the cause of the fountain. That the stream of
Christian truth, nay, that the stagnant puddles which are the result of an
erratic overflow of its waters, are the cause of its fountain-head of
credibility is what this unphilosophical writer takes for granted on every
page of his book. Of course it is both foolish and arrogant presumption in
the church to claim infallibility, but the most reasonable thing in the
world for each and every human being to claim this prerogative as a
natural-born characteristic. However, we do not wonder at this; it is but
the logical consequence, ridiculously absurd as is the conclusion, of the
rejection of the principle of divine authority.
{790}
It is the conclusion forced upon its adherents by Protestantism, and shows
its fruits in the present wide-spread scepticism and infidelity in the
countries where it has been the dominant religion. Never did any system
prepare more surely the weapon of its own destruction than that which
promulgated to the world the principle of private judgment. The cry of
revolt is raised in the Protestant camp, and alarming its teachers--Rome or
Reason--by which is too plainly meant, "Either a divinely constituted
authority, or the divine authority of the individual soul." A choice that
leaves all the sects which have sprung from the Reformation out in the
cold.
Upon the unphilosophical basis for Christian faith which we have noted
above our author proceeds to establish the sufficient authenticity and
inspiration of the Bible. We say, _sufficient_, because, as far as we
are able to gather, he rates the entire credibility and value of the
Scriptures as the revealed word of God to man according to the intellectual
and spiritual assent of the individual, assuming, as he does, that every
man possesses a "verifying faculty" and a "spiritual insight," through
which his own belief and the Scriptures confirm one another and make him
wise unto salvation.
He holds that the Bible is inspired only in what concerns doctrine and
morals, but is forced to make his reader the judge of what is doctrine and
the censor of morality, for his highest evidence either of inspiration or
of the canonicity of the sacred books is, as he tells us on p. 136, "the
interior witness of the Spirit to the truths embodied in the accepted
books." And as he says on p. 85, "It is 'the wise' only who 'understand.'
The peasant is, in this respect, often far above the philosopher.
Everything depends on the moral condition of the recipient." We think it
sufficient to add his own damaging conclusion: "That this way of looking at
the matter makes the evidence for the truth of the Bible mainly subjective
cannot be disputed; but nothing else in the present day appears to have
much hold on men. It may, indeed, be seriously doubted whether it is now
possible to bring forward any evidence, in favor of miracles, for instance,
which could reasonably be expected to satisfy an unconcerned spectator, and
still less an opponent." (P. 86.)
For himself, therefore, the author rejects all miracles which he thinks
were needless and unworthy of the apparent end for which they were
performed, and advises his reluctant sceptic to follow his example.
Moreover, as he does not find that his interior witness convicts him of the
truth of the Trinity or the divinity of Jesus Christ, or, as we suppose,
from the tenor of his language, anything else that is a mystery, of course
the Scripture does not teach these doctrines either. No man can be blind to
the inevitable consequence of such a principle. The Bible could not have
the slightest extrinsic authority in either doctrine or morals, and is a
proof that, without the divine authority, which both authenticates and
interprets it, it is practically worthless in teaching the one or enforcing
the other.
The following passage contains a most admirable refutation of the writer's
own principle, which, however, he does not appear to see: "Looked at in
this way"--as discerned by spiritual insight--"it is of no moment that
either the uninstructed or the instructed man should be able to say
regarding each separate passage of Scripture, _this_ is inspired,
_this_ is not. How can he indeed? The revelation is not a thing
_apart_ from daily life, but _through_ its various relations:
how, then, can any man undertake to separate in each particular the
supernatural element from the natural which it irradiates and explains? To
regard anything of the kind as necessary either to confidence or
edification is absurd; as absurd, in fact, as it is to maintain that we
'require an exercise of judgment upon the written document before we can
allow men to believe in their King and Saviour.'
{791}
Every one knows that this is not the fact; that in all time the multitude
never have nor ever can enter upon any such inquiries; that the masses must
either believe in Christ directly as an actual person related to them, and
recognized by them in their inmost souls, or they will not believe at all.
They listen to the announcement that Christ is their Redeemer, and they
believe the good news _just in so far as it finds a response in their own
spiritual necessities and consciousness_. Into evidences about documents
they cannot enter." (Pp. 81, 82.)
This is the most delightful instance of begging the question we have ever
met with. Pray, _who_ announces to the multitude, who cannot enter
into evidence about documents nor even read them, that Christ is their
Redeemer? and who has any _right_ to announce that fact? Truly,
"whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved;" but, "how
shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? Or how shall they
believe him of whom they have not heard? And how shall they hear without a
preacher? And how shall they preach _unless they be sent?_" That it is
the end of preaching, and that saving faith is the belief of the "good news
just in so far as it finds a response in one's own spiritual necessities
and self-consciousness," is mere twaddle, since our spiritual needs however
keenly appreciated, or self-consciousness, however exalted, can never
supply the objective truths of faith or rise above their own capacity to
the ability of verifying, without the aid of extrinsic authority, the
truths when proposed. Christianity, in so far as it is anything more than
mere natural religion, is not of us, but to us. For if it were of us, what
need is there of a revelation? That the good news that Christ is my
Redeemer can be in any manner affirmed to me by my own self-consciousness
is impossible. It is an historical fact, it is true, that such a person as
Christ lived, but it is not an historical fact, by any means, that he is my
Redeemer. That is a divine fact, which the most minute history of humanity
never could demonstrate, for it is altogether out of the natural order, and
wholly supernatural, and hence requiring a divine teaching authority both
to promulgate it and enforce my belief. What this author, with many other
modern writers of the same class, needs is a good course of philosophy as
taught in our Catholic schools. It would save us a good deal of time and
paper in exposing their illogical reasonings.
We do not deny that the holy writings find a response in the heart and mind
of the Christian which no other book that was ever penned could awaken. We
know that it is full of strength and consolation, of instruction and
righteousness, and of help in the perfecting of his character; but this is
the case precisely because he is a Christian by virtue of the same
authority which declares the inspiration of its contents. That authority
for every one who can rationally call himself a Christian is the authority
of the Catholic Church. From this there is no escape. All Protestants
inasmuch as they are Christian are so in obedience to the voice of whatever
Catholic tradition is yet left to influence them. It announces that
Christianity is true and that the Bible is inspired. This tradition of
theirs finds its sanction in the Catholic Church, and would be utterly
worthless if she had no existence.
Again, it is impossible to controvert the fact that the Bible, as a
Christian revelation, depends for its authenticity and canonicity upon the
sanction of the church. To say that it does not is to claim inspiration for
every individual in order to decide upon what is and what is not inspired.
If I reject the authority of the church, how shall I be content with the
Bible as it is, as she has compiled it? Perhaps I might differ with her as
to her decision about the non-inspiration of the rejected gospels and
epistles; and if to my thinking some of the books which it now contains are
not inspired, nay more, if I reject the whole of them as such, what power
on earth is there to call me to account?
{792}
No wonder Luther had the presumption to call the epistle of St. James an
"epistle of straw," or that Dr. Colenso has no respect for the Pentateuch.
We are constrained to believe that the principles assumed by this writer
are far more pernicious, and would do more to undermine the traditional
authority which the Bible has among Protestants and reluctant sceptics,
than the weak and flippant arguments of the notorious apostle of the Zulus.
We read the chapter on the Interpretation of Scripture with no little
curiosity, knowing that this would present a test question to the author's
system of inspiration. Suppose that two men, two Christians if you will,
not only differed about the inspiration of a certain passage, but also
about the interpretation of it. Can the conclusion of both, contradictory
as they are, be the "witness of the Spirit"? As we expected, this chapter
is the weakest in the book. Let us give the author's argument: "But while
divine revelation can have but one true meaning, nothing can be more
certain than that, being a message from the Heavenly Father to his erring
and sinful creatures, it must have a power of adaptation to each and all of
them in particular which, from the very nature of the case, forbids any
exhaustive or authoritative interpretation of its contents." We confess we
are not able to put this in plain English. Let us analyze it, however, and
see what propositions it contains: 1st. Any given inspired revelation can
have but one true meaning. 2d. This inspired revelation is given as a
message of truth to the human race by the God of truth. 3d. This inspired
revelation is necessarily of such a character that it can be made to mean
anything according to the power of discernment in the individual; and
hence, 4th. No one can even be sure which interpretation is the true one.
If these absurd propositions are not contained in the quotation we have
given, we humbly acknowledge that we have learned the English language in
vain. We knew that the author must break down on this subject, and he has
most thoroughly. How one can escape the necessity of an authoritative power
of interpretation of the Scripture it is impossible for us to divine. How
_can_ two contradictory interpretations be true? How _can_ any
man in his senses believe that the Spirit of God witnesses to two
propositions, one of which gives the lie to the other? But, deny an
authoritative power of interpretation to which all men must bow, how can I
ever know that my interpretation is true and that my brother's is false? To
attempt a compromise, such as the author suggests, that each interpretation
is true for each man, is too absurd to demand a moment's consideration.
Truth is truth not because I see it, but as it is, whether I see it or not,
and the man who rejects it when it is presented to his intelligence is
either a knave or a fool. Two and two are four whether I agree to it or
not, and no possible interpretation of the process of addition can change
its truth; nor is there any loophole except that of insanity which would
ever allow me to be excused for asserting that the product of twice two was
five and not four.
It is certainly amusing to see this author refuting himself, as he
frequently does. To confide the right interpretation of Scripture to an
organized authority is to vest the final decision as to what the book says
in man. So he argues. Yet he tells us in the same breath that each
individual man is his own lawful interpreter. Does the author think that we
are simple enough to believe, with all the jarring, clashing sects which
have sprung out of this individual interpretation of the Bible before our
eyes a principle, too, which furnishes the sceptic with the means of
wresting its words to his own destruction--that, if each man interpret it
for himself, the final decision in each particular case is any less human
than the unanimous decision which a body, such as the Catholic Church is,
gives without variation for nineteen centuries?
{793}
This gratuitous assumption about the "interior witness of the Spirit" is
cant, not argument; for where does the individual find any assurance that
each and every man will be so assisted? Experience proves directly the
contrary. But, says our author, all these quarrels about the truths taught
by the Bible are not due to the Bible itself, but to the sectarian
divisions of Christianity, who each and all impose their own interpretation
on their members. This will not do. As long as the principle of
authoritative interpretation was upheld, as it is alone in the Catholic
Church, there was no quarrelling about the doctrines or morals inculcated
by the Holy Scriptures. The interpretation was but one. It was only when
the author's pet principle came into vogue, which was the apple of discord
borne by the tree of the Reformation, that men began to quarrel and dispute
about what the Bible taught. The wily sceptic with the Bible placed in his
hands, accompanied by a pious assurance that he will be guided in its
interpretation by the interior witness of the Spirit, will only laugh in
his sleeve at your simplicity. He will find in it just what pleases him,
and who has the right to accuse him of not following the witness of the
Spirit? Who finds insuperable difficulties in the sacred record? Who has
discovered, as they imagine, contradictory passages in it? Who come to the
conclusion that there is one God of the patriarchs, another God of the
Jews, and a third of the Christian? Not the Catholic Church or her doctors,
but the Protestant sects with their Colensos, their Essayists and
Reviewers, and flippant commentators. The Catholic Church finds no
difficulties or contradictions in the text of Scripture in any portion that
relates to doctrine or morals. Her interpretation is uniform and harmonious
from the first page of Genesis to the last words of the Apocalypse.
Difficulties there are, but they are only historical and of minor moment,
which affect in no way the unity of the sacred writings as the revealed
word of God. All attempts which have been made of late by Protestants to
discredit the inspiration of the Bible on the ground that these historical
difficulties are of such a nature as to render the record untrustworthy,
have signally failed. The most that has been proved, even by the most
captious critics, is, that in the recital of certain events the text is
obscure, and leaves many things untold and unexplained.
The tone of the writer when speaking of the Catholic Church is, on the
whole, pretty fair, but it seems impossible for a Protestant to write on
religious subjects without either committing some egregious blunder when we
are concerned, or inserting some piece of calumny or of wilful
misrepresentation. We note an instance of this in the letter which forms an
introduction to the body of the work. Referring to the hope expressed by
the reluctant sceptic that "one day we shall have forms of public devotion
sufficiently aesthetic to gratify the religious sentiment, without
involving dogmas that lead only to dispute," he adds: "You will perhaps be
surprised if I tell you that I think this very possible. But, believe me,
it will only be when Christendom, so long apostate, has, in retribution for
her abominations, became absolutely atheistic. That a tendency of this kind
manifests itself, from time to time, in Rome, especially among the Jesuits,
has been noticed by devout Catholics, and is regarded by them with grief
and anxiety." (P. 45.)
This is the style of lying (for what he says of the Jesuits is, we hardly
need say, wholly untrue) that disgraces the religious writings of our
opponents almost without exception. What does it mean? Simply this: "I
fear, my dear, reluctant sceptic, that you are hungering after ritualism,
which the Catholic Church possesses in beautiful harmony with all her
dogmas.
{794}
But don't look that way, or examine her claims upon your mind or religious
sentiment, for the Catholic Church herself is becoming atheistic, as is
shown by the atheistical tendencies of the Jesuits in Rome, and
(_aside_--to make the lie more plausible I will say) this tendency has
been noticed by devout Catholics, and is regarded by them with grief and
anxiety." We can do nothing but cry shame upon such wretched and base
subterfuges to withdraw the attention of sincere minds from an honest
examination of the Catholic faith.
We blush for their unscrupulous and persistent system of misrepresentation,
which quietly ignores alike our indignant denials and appeals to be heard;
but we do not fear for the final result. All blows aimed at the Rock of
Truth will only recoil with deadly force upon the aggressor. Her beauty
will come out untarnished after every attempt at defilement; her purity and
sanctity no defamation can long obscure; her divine truth is proof against
the machinations and deceit of the father of lies and his children. Not in
vain has the inspired prophet said of her: "No weapon that is formed
against thee shall prosper, and every tongue that resisteth thee in
judgment thou shall condemn." She is the divinely appointed exponent of
God's word to man, whether written or not. "He that heareth you, heareth
me," and her exposition has been uniform, harmonious, and consistent
throughout; while the sects, left to their own fanciful interpretation of
the only word which they have acknowledged as authoritative, present a
lamentable picture of dissension and disbelief--"As children tossed to and
fro, and carried about by every wind of doctrine."
------
From the French of Augustin Chevalier.
Decimated.
I.
It was seven in the evening when we arose from the table, where the
conversation had for an hour or more run on the civil war which had just
desolated Germany. General Bourdelaine, a tall, wiry specimen of the
_ancien officier_, whom no one would imagine to be verging upon his
eighty-fourth year, and who very probably will in the year one thousand
eight hundred and eighty-eight celebrate the eighty-second anniversary of
his leaving the military school in 1806, invited us for coffee into the
study where ordinarily none but his most intimate friends are admitted; for
the general, although on the retired list since 1845, has not yet begun to
seek the repose of inactivity, and I have seen in that study of his an
entire series of strategical plans (afterward published by the minister of
war) of the principal battles of Napoleon in Champagne against the allied
forces.
The study is large, although it seems small, so filled is every piece of
furniture, shelf, and hook with coins, arms, plans, papers, portraits,
busts, statuettes in marble and in bronze, books, globes, and drawing
instruments, and all these not in absolute disorder, but in an apparent
confusion which the general finds very convenient, inasmuch as everything
is within reach.
{795}
It was not the first time I had been there. For the first time, however, on
this particular evening, my eyes fell upon a plain boxwood frame hung on
the wall opposite the chimney-piece, in a recess formed by two large
book-cases. A brilliant point in the centre, which reflected the light of
the lamp, attracted my attention. It was the enamel of a cross of the
Legion of Honor, to which was attached, under the glass, a large band of
crape which stretched to the four corners of the frame. On the left of the
frame, on the outside, hung a huge silver watch, and on the right the
golden acorn of a sword-knot.
The daughter of the general entered at this moment, followed by a servant
bearing coffee and all the accessories upon a tray. There were now five of
us in the room: the general, his daughter and his son-in law, a government
clerk, and myself. Each one began in silence to discuss the smoking coffee;
when the general, whose glance had unconsciously taken the same direction
as mine, suddenly exclaimed:
"What a horrible thing war is! I did not enter the service until the time
had come when men no longer went forth to meet the enemy through
patriotism, but moved merely by the desire of winning rank or fortune, or
by the love of glory and honor. I was present at some frightful butcheries
and routs still more frightful; I have seen nearly all the miracles of the
emperor's genius, and I bore my part in the reverses fickle fortune
inflicted upon him. Well, after all, what did it amount to? The fortune of
war is one of the chances of the trade. You conquer or are conquered, kill
or are killed. The ranks close up, and then--room for the bravest or most
favored, the most skilful or the luckiest! But to be forced to fire upon
your own men; to be compelled to decimate pitilessly your own brave
companions; to kill in cold blood excellent soldiers, whose only crime was
a single day's mutiny, but whose example might risk the discipline and
safety of the entire army; to kill, I say, men whom the very intoxication
of victory led to believe that their fault would go unpunished; men we
sorely needed; this, this is most fearful and saddest of all; this it is
that still makes my old heart bleed more than fifty years after it
happened; and when my thoughts revert to it, even though conscience remain
tranquil, something very like remorse pursues me."
"It seems, then, general," I said, "that yonder cross and crape recall
cruel memories."
He put down his cup without replying, filled a small glass with cognac and
swallowed it at one gulp.
"Have you finished the notes I wished you to make from Jomini and
Vandoncourt?"
"Yes, _mon général_."
"Very good; give them me. And now service for service. I will confide to
you an episode in my military life of which you may make what use you think
proper. I authorize you to do so."
And General Bourdelaine thereupon related what follows.
II.
My rank in the service dates from October, 1805. Jena and Austerlitz won me
my epaulettes of _sous-lieutenant_. In 1807 I made the Polish
campaign, and in 1808 the Spanish. The following year I was recalled to
Germany, and saw Ratisbon and Wagram. Napoleon after the battle halted in
front of my regiment to learn the names of those who had distinguished
themselves.
"All did," cried the colonel; "but, if your majesty will permit me, I would
especially recommend the Lieutenant Bourdelaine to your favor."
The emperor looked at me.
"You come from Saint-Cyr?"
"Yes, sire."
"How many campaigns?"
"Three."
"And still a lieutenant."
"I have had no chance to rise before this."
"Which do you prefer, the cross or promotion?"
"Promotion, sire."
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My reply was not that of a courtier. But he loved the young men of his
schools, and those, above all, who, like me, had not awaited the end of
their course before becoming officers.
"Ah! you prefer promotion."
"Sire, they say that things are not going well in Spain since your majesty
left there. Send me thither; give me a company, and I will win death or the
cross."
"Very well."
I received the company I sought, not, however, in a French, but in an
Italian regiment. I was ordered to Arragon in November, 1810, and made part
of the army commanded by Suchet. My colonel, San-Polo, received me warmly.
"You will find more than one of your countrymen in my regiment," said he;
"and you had better have them give an account of your men. I warn you that
they are very devils. You must be vigilant and firm; just but inflexible;
if not, you will find yourself exposed to strange surprises, and I be put
to the necessity of punishing you."
The colonel was no false prophet. Those Italians are terrible soldiers.
Rash, useful principally for an assault or _coup-de main_, never
flinching under fire, but, once out of it, quarrelsome, intractable and
given to pillaging, ours, I confess, more than once seemed to sack and
destroy for the mere pleasure of doing so. I can yet see the comical though
moving scene which took place in Burgos, where my battalion, in 1808,
boiled their pots with all the mandolines and guitars they could find in
the city, notwithstanding the despair of the inhabitants, who hastened to
bring them coals and wood. But the soup, seasoned with jokes and bursts of
laughter, seemed to them the better for it.
Before I return to my story, a few words on the situation of the army of
Arragon.
General Suchet had taken one after another the towns of Mequinenza; on the
southern confines of the province of Huesca; Lareda, in Lower Catalonia, to
the north-west of Mequinenza; and Tortosa, south of Lerida, at the
extremity of the province of Tarragona. He thus commanded part of the
rivers Ebro, the Segre, and the Cinca; and, moreover, the capture of those
cities had enabled him to collect a complete park of siege artillery at
Tortosa. Unfortunately, the commandant of Figuera having allowed himself to
be surprised in Upper Catalonia, our forces there were compelled to fall
back toward Girona, and the Spanish General Campoverde, beaten before
Figueras by Baraguay d'Hilliers, had profited by our mishap, not only to
rally his troops, but also to annoy our magazines and communications.
Therefore, although he had received orders from the emperor, on the 10th of
March, to invest Tarragona, whose capture, completing our occupation of the
principality of Catalonia, would have opened the road to Valentia to us,
General Suchet did not yet dare attempt an enterprise of such importance.
The task of keeping the two districts of Mora and Alcuniz in subjection--
the first in Lower Catalonia, to the north of Tortosa, and the second in
Arragon to the north-west of Mequinenza, and in the province of Ternel--
paralyzed his forces. His artillery, too, had been retarded. In short,
instead of an effective force of over forty thousand men, which the
junction of the army of Arragon with that of Catalonia should have formed,
he had not more than thirty battalions at his service.
You are not a soldier, and you do not understand how even the lowest
officer racks his head over the probabilities of some approaching
expedition, and with what feverish impatience the men in the ranks await
the signal of departure. Headquarters were established at Lareda, and
magazines already were placed at Reus, Monblanch, and Alcobar, to the north
and west of Tarragona; but it was reported that an English fleet under
Admiral Adams was preparing to re-provision the last-named city, and to
interrupt our communications by transporting to our rear the troops of
Campoverde and Sarsfield by the mouths of the Ebro. Our park of siege
artillery remained motionless at Tortosa, and as yet Suchet had not begun
to move.
{797}
I was at Mora, where my battalion was to remain, if the jokers about camp
were to be believed; an absurd rumor, for wherever a vigorous blow was to
be struck the Italians never failed to come in for their share. I had
formed a close friendship with Lieutenant Polidoro, a reckless individual,
but one of the best-hearted fellows in the service. He was from Milan, and
had commenced life as a choir-boy. A _reverendissimo_, almost unknown
to him, was in the habit of sending him from time to time fifty
_scudi_ by way of pocket-money. The day he received this little
remittance was a gala-day for the whole battalion. Wine flowed through the
camp. Not a man was forgotten. The next day he was without a _sou_,
but he had had his fun, and drunk many times to the health of Monsignor
Capellini, as he called his friend.
His father was unknown to him, and often would he cry, twirling his shako
on his sword, when asked why he did not assume the paternal cognomen:
"Why should I recognize an old fellow who shows so little pride in having a
grenadier of my height for a son?"
The gayety of Polidoro, the friendship of his comrades for him, the
attachment of his men, whose enthusiasm was excited by his bravery and
liberality, inspired me, at last, with the most unlimited confidence in
him; and, well satisfied with never having to inflict the slightest
punishment, thanks to the excellent reports he always brought me of the
company, I placed matters of mere discipline entirely in his hands.
Suddenly, one fine morning, at roll-call, not one of my men, with the
exception of the Sous-Lieutenant Brocard--a Frenchman like myself--appeared
on the parade-ground. He, sad and crest-fallen, informed me that our
company had filed away during the night toward Batea, to the north of
Casserras, on the Arragon frontier. At the same time he handed me a letter
addressed to me by Polidoro. Judge of my astonishment when I cast my eye
upon its contents:
"Captain: It is certainly an ill proceeding on my part to leave Mora,
with your whole company, without first informing you of our intention.
Life in Mora is not very lively, and our men were growing shockingly
tired of it. I am responsible for their health, and found myself forced
to adopt violent measures to preserve it. We are going a league from here
to Batea, where they say good wine abounds. It is even reported that
there is a guerilla roving through the mountains, and that he has been
joined by some disbanded soldiers of Sarsfield and Campoverde. What a
chance for fun! We will thus be enabled to indulge in a little diversion
while waiting for the march on Tarragona. I do not ask you to put
yourself at the head of our expedition. I suppose, even, that, if you
were ordered to bring us back, your honor would only permit you to speak
to us through the throats of muskets. Be good enough, however, to advise
our brave colonel of our departure, and tell him that, whatever may
happen, we are all devoted to him, for life and for death, and that each
one of us (I was always remarkable for foresight) has ten rounds of
cartridge at his service. If we are let alone, be assured that the entire
company, including your humble servant, will be en route for Lareda at
the first roll of the drum.
"Your faithful friend,
"The Lieutenant Polidoro."
This letter filled me with consternation. I felt that I had been guilty of
weakness and negligence. I was not only puzzled; I suspected perfidy,
treason. I did not yet understand the singular forms which insubordination
often takes among Italian troops. The Russian soldier is little more than a
savage; the German, when he quarrels with his officers in the field,
becomes gross and brutal; the Frenchman pushes familiarity to insolence;
the Spaniard heroically disbands, placing every reverse to the account of
the ignorance or cowardice of his officers, and then sets about making head
individually against the enemy in some defile of his mountains; the
Englishman shows himself, in war as in everything else, a close calculator,
weighing the _pros_ and _cons_ long together, and, above all
others, complains of the insufficiency or bad quality of his provisions, as
witness the mutiny of the fleet in the reign of George III., when it became
necessary to hang an admiral, and which was only suppressed by the coolness
of Pitt.
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But, when the Italian mutinies, he does it with incredible niceness, and,
unless he has some vengeance to execute, (which he will carry out with
uncommon ferocity,) he remains an artist to the last.
"_Corbleu!_" cried I to Brocard. "We are in a pretty box; exposed,
too, to the ridicule of our comrades. And I thought this Polidoro my
friend!"