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A GARDEN OF GIRLS
[Illustration: SIR THOMAS MORE AND HIS DAUGHTER MARGARET
OBSERVING FROM HIS PRISON WINDOW THE MONKS GOING TO EXECUTION A.D. 1535
(_From the picture by J. R. Herbert, R.A., in the National Gallery Vernon
Collection_)]
A GARDEN OF GIRLS
Or
Famous Schoolgirls of Former Days
by
Mrs. THOMAS CONCANNON M.A.
Author of
“The Sorrow of Lycadoon” “The Land of
Long Ago” “Earth, Sea and Sky” etc.
[Illustration]
Longmans, Green, and Co.
39 Paternoster Row, London
New York, Bombay, and Calcutta
1914
[Illustration: “Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.”—Maud.]
INTRODUCTION
I offer this little book (which aims at a reconstruction as faithful and
accurate as careful research could achieve, of the _real_ school-life and
education of _real_ little girls in many ages, and in many lands) to all
those interested in the education of the Irish Girls of To-day—the women
of a great and splendid To-morrow.
If it be true, as Cardinal Logue reminds us, that “A Nation is what its
Women make its Men,” at no time was the question of the Education of her
Girls of more importance to Ireland than it is now.
Is all well with that Education? By what test shall Ireland prove it?
As I write these words, there comes before me a memory of a wonderful
little room, at the end of a Dresden Gallery, where the Sistine Madonna
hangs beautiful and alone. Here, generation after generation of artists
have come to gaze on that Miracle of Loveliness, and to test their own
art by its perfection.
So, a little apart in the Gallery of the Scriptures hangs the immortal
picture of the “Valiant Woman.” And it seemed to me, as I was writing of
the Little Girls in my book, that I could see each age and each country
coming to that picture as to a shrine, and trying to copy, each in its
own medium, its untold perfection.
Do those who have charge of the Education of the Irish Girls of To-day
stand often before that picture of the “Valiant Woman,” and do they try
to reproduce her image?
If so, all is well with the Education of Ireland’s Girls—and all will be
well with Ireland, the Nation.
HELENA CONCANNON.
* * * * *
Five of the sketches: Darlugdacha, St. Elizabeth, Cecilia Gonzaga,
Margaret More, and Marie Jeanne d’Aumale, appeared in the “Irish Rosary”
during 1912—I am indebted to the kindness of the Editor for permission
to republish in book form. It is only one of a long list of favours, for
which I am his grateful debtor.
I owe acknowledgment, also, to Professor Max Freund, Queen’s University,
Belfast, for valuable direction in the Middle High German Studies
underlying the sketch of St. Elizabeth.
H. C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
PAGE
DARLUGDACHA: A little Schoolgirl of St. Brigid 9
ST. ELIZABETH: A little German Schoolgirl of the Middle Ages 35
CECILIA GONZAGA: A little Italian Schoolgirl of the Renaissance 64
MARGARET MORE: A little Schoolgirl of Tudor England 98
MARIE JEANNE D’AUMALE: A little Schoolgirl of Saint-Cyr 128
TWO SCHOOLGIRL DIARISTS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY:
I.—HÉLÈNE MASSALSKI, Paris 168
II.—ANNA GREEN WINSLOW, Boston 190
PAMELA AT BELLECHASSE: The Schooldays of LADY EDWARD FITZGERALD 208
MARJORIE FLEMING: Sir Walter Scott’s “Pet Marjorie” 224
A GARDEN OF GIRLS
DARLUGDACHA
A Little Schoolgirl of St. Brigid
(_Circa A.D. 490_)
PART I.—THE ORPHANING OF DARLUGDACHA
Across the plain, in the twilight, rode Flann with his noble
guest-friends by his side, and his hunting train behind him. They had
hunted all day in the woods to the south of the plain—on foot, as the old
Irish custom was, while their horses grazed free in the forest glades,
and the gillies guarded their masters’ trappings. Now, weary of limb
themselves, they were astride their fresh steeds, and the miles that
lay between them and the banqueting hall within the white Dún above the
Liffey were miles of soft, springy turf. Even the trappers felt their
heavy burdens light, as their feet touched it. They raced in time to the
joyous concert of the beagles, and the tinkling of the horse-bells—every
man of them with his great wolf-dog at his side.
The red sunset filled the West, and, in the glow of it, splendid
mantles—purple and yellow, and green, and red—were yet more splendid.
Gleams of fire were struck from great jewelled brooches, from the gold
on bits and bridles, from richly-wrought horse-cloths. Flann himself, a
glowing splendid figure, rode at the head of that splendid company, the
pride of life in his heart, and crowning his haughtily carried head.
They came to a point from which a great oak tree was visible. It seemed
to Flann, all at once, as if another hand than his were laid on the
bridle, and his horse were being urged out of its straight course for
the home stable. He lifted his echlasc,[1] and with it tried to turn the
horse’s head back again. But in vain. One way only the horse would go,
and that was towards the great oak tree, which spread a wide dark net
against the red background of the sunset.
“Let it thus be,” said Flann, yielding. “Let us lay the wolf’s head at
the holy maiden’s feet, that she may know how her cattle may henceforth
graze in peace.” He called out the word to his followers, and presently
they were all—horsemen, and runners, and dogs—thundering across the turf
due westward.
They came to the door of the Lios, which surrounded the cells of the holy
maiden, Brigid, and her companions. “Knock loudly,” cried Flann; and a
gillie stooped and found the knocker in a niche by the door, and struck
the wood heavily with it.
The sound of the sliding bolt followed speedily. The door opened, and a
white figure stood framed in the door-porch.
“Prince Flann,” said a woman’s clear voice, with a note of wonder in
it, “a blessing on thee and on thy company. Is it aught of ill befallen
Etain, thy wife, which brings thee so late to the door of Brigid’s cell?”
Flann shouted a word back to the Cuchairi,[2] and one of them came
forward, a tall man in a rough, frieze mantle, and laid a dead wolf at
the nun’s feet.
“This is what brings us to Brigid’s cell, so far out of our way,” said
Flann, pointing with jewelled “echlasc” to the gaunt, stark figure,
stretched on the grass before the immdorus.[3] “Now, oh! Blathnata, may
the flocks of Brigid, and you her sisters, graze in peace.”
He met the eyes of the little pale nun, and found them fixed on him with
a strange compassion. The red of the sunset had suddenly faded from the
sky, and a quick fear clutched his heart as the chill, grey shadows
followed it. What word was that Blathnata had spoken of an ill that may
have befallen Etain, his wife?
His gaze went past the slim, white figure in the immdorus. Behind her
he could see, over the darkling lawn, the pale glimmer of the little
lime-washed wattle cells, where Brigid and her sisters dwelt. The oak
tree was stirring with a queer moaning sound, and the voice of the brook
that ran past it, and out under the Lios into the plain, held a sob. Then
suddenly the smell of wet grass and running water was lost in the acrid
smell of blood. The spear-wound in the wolf’s heart was bleeding again.
Prince Flann could feel beneath him how his horse was trembling in every
limb. From behind came the nervous neighing of steeds, the soothing
words of the riders, the frightened yelp of a dog, suddenly silenced.
Then a burst of music came floating out from over the Lios—and horses
and dogs quieted. Flann looked again, and saw the windows of the little
wooden church, where the holy virgins were gathered for the vesper hymn,
streaming with a faint but steady light.
How was it that Flann could only hear in the vesper music wherewith the
Church, the kind Mother, soothes and comforts her tired and frightened
children, before the coming of the darkness, the echoes of the death-song
of Cineal Cearbhail? How was it that the lights of the Church burned
before him like corpse-candles? Not he alone of that splendid company
felt the joy and pride of life yield to an eerie sense of inevitable
death.
“Must we wait until her evening prayer is ended, before we may speak with
Brigid?” said Flann at last, mastering himself with a strong effort.
It was too dark to see the expression of Blathnata’s face. But the tone
of her voice made the fear that was clutching at Flann’s heart take a
tighter grip. “Our Mother knew (by what means I may not say) that Etain,
thy wife, had need of her. Nathfraich, the charioteer, drove her over the
plain, to-day, to thy Dún by the Liffey, and there she yet bides.”
What a ride was that over the plain in the darkness when the sun had
burned itself out of the sky, and the world was black with its ashes.
Never a word had Flann spoken since he turned his horse away from the
door of Brigid’s Lios. Never once did he lift his head from his breast,
until the neighing of his horse made him conscious of the scent of
river-water. Then he looked, as his habit was, for the lights of his Dún,
and saw them laid like a crown of jewels on the brow of the hill.
But what lights were they? Small need to ask that question when the
wailing of women came to him already over the glimmering white palisade,
towards which he and his company were climbing.
He was off his horse before a gillie could come to him. He had no thought
of his guests as he hurried past the banqueting-hall, where their shields
hung in order above the spread tables. Their feet had hardly touched
the ground, when he had climbed the outer staircase which led to the
grianan—and saw what it held for him.
In the centre of it, on a rich couch of beaten bronze, lay the white
form of a girl. The little golden head was pressed deep into the thick
deerskin cushion. On the breast, beneath the delicate white hands,
joined for the supreme prayer, the fold of the embroidered coverlet was
ominously still. The light of tall wax candles, grouped around the
couch, fell on the chiselled beauty of a high-bred white, young face.
Around the circular, tapestry-covered walls women were seated, making
lament for the passing away of so much beauty, and love, and youth. “It
is low your yellow head lies to-night, oh, Etain of the golden locks,
you that were wont to hold it high at the Feastings of Kings and Heroes,
when poets sang the high deeds of Flann, your Lord. It is cold and still
your hands are, that were wont to be stretched out for the relieving of
the wants of the stranger, and the poor; for the pouring out of wine for
guests; for the rewarding of learned men, and men of valour. No colder
and stiller than your heart, that was once warm with the noble blood of
the race of Con! Ochone! Ochone! for the cold, still heart that can never
feel the warmth of the little child nestling against it.”
The “keeners” were suddenly silent—for a cry more heartrending than
theirs was filling the death-chamber. It was the cry of a little
motherless baby. A tall woman, dressed from head to foot in spotless
white, with a white veil thrown over her long, dark hair, had entered
the room, and, coming straight to where Flann knelt by the couch of his
dead wife, she stooped and tried to lay in his empty arms, what she was
carrying in the shelter of her white mantle.
“See, Prince Flann,” she said, “what Etain, thy wife, has left thee for
thy consolation until the day comes when she may stretch out her hands to
thee again—and welcome thee home for ever.”
But Flann would not lift his face. “Take it away, oh! Brigid!” he said,
“and let me not look on that which has cost me the loss of my one
treasure. Let the God you serve keep the child, and give me back Etain,
my wife.”
There was a moment’s silence, for Brigid had the child anew in the folds
of her mantle, and its cries had ceased. Then there came a deep groan,
followed by a sudden, horrified cry from the women. Brigid knelt down
quickly, the child in her arms, and lifted one of the hands, which Flann
had flung in his passion of despair across the dead body of his wife.
Heavy as lead it dropped from her grasp. It was the hand of a dead man.
She rose then, the sorrow of the world darkening her grey eyes. “Methinks
the wish of Flann has been fulfilled,” she said. “Now he stands with
Etain, his wife—and their little child shall be consecrate to God.”