So in the folds of Brigid’s white mantle, the little orphan maiden,
Darlugdacha, found shelter; and the first home she knew was the
white-washed hut of wattles and clay in the shadow of the great oak tree
of the Plain of Kildare.
Very warm was the nest they made for her—the holy maidens, who were
Brigid’s companions. Dear gentle Daria, the blind nun, wove a cradle of
osiers, and Blathnata filled a deer-skin with downy feathers to lay in
it. Kinnia spun fine linen for it; and Brigid, herself, took the wool
of the whitest lamb in her flock, and spun and wove it into warm, soft
coverlets. When the sisters were gathered with spindle, and distaff,
and needle on the lawn, the little cradle stood in the midst of them,
protected from the damp grass by the wolf-skin, which had been Flann’s
last offering. But it was so contrived that it could be hung, also, from
a branch of the tree. So, as the little green leaves began to peep out on
the oak tree, they found among their green company something that they
might well have taken for a beautiful, rosy blossom. And it was the
little child in her cradle.
At night the cradle was hung from the feici[4] in Brigid’s cell, a
dim lamp swaying from the opposite end. And when the dawn came, and
Brigid set wide the door to let it in, there was always standing by the
threshold her own snow-white pet doe, waiting to give her milk to feed
her tiny nursling.
The months passed quickly, and at last the little maiden had climbed out
of the cradle, and was learning to take her first faltering steps. Blind
Daria, with her deft hands, had fashioned the quaintest garments for her.
They were of undyed lambs’-wool, and made in the same fashion that the
holy maidens, themselves, had chosen. There was a white mantle, too; and
on the curly, baby head, was set a snow-white veil.
But not in dress alone was Darlugdacha a little nun. Very early, like all
healthy little girls, she insisted on taking an active part in the life
she saw around her. There was one beautiful night when Brigid and her
companions were gathered in the Church for the Second Nocturn. The lamps
were swaying from the ridge-pole, and in the dim light of them the nuns
were singing from psalters of their own copying the appointed psalms.
All but blind Daria, who needed no psalter and no lamp-light.
All at once the blind nun’s quick ear caught a sound at the barred
door. Very softly she stole from her place and set it open. There was
Darlugdacha, with her white tunic all stained with mud, her rosy face all
stained with tears, and her baby hands all hurt with beating at the door.
Sightless Daria could _see_ these things, as she stooped and gathered the
forlorn little figure into her arms. Presently, she was back in her place
again, with Darlugdacha’s head on her shoulder, and Darlugdacha singing
her own version of the psalms after her, in the sweetest baby voice. But,
long before the Office was ended, Darlugdacha was sound asleep.
After that night, Daria would always slip into the Abbess’ hut before she
took her own place in the church, and, if the child seemed restless, she
would wrap her up warmly in her own mantle and carry her with her. So
Darlugdacha early took her part in the “Magnum Opus,” and the earliest
words her tongue uttered were the praises of God. The music of the
psaltery was her most frequent lullaby.
She was welcome everywhere, and in no place whithersoever her little
pattering feet led her, did she find her help, however embarrassing to
the recipient, disdained. Even when there were guests in the guest-house,
and Blathnata, the cook, was very busy in the kitchen, Darlugdacha could
enter that domain fearlessly, and, as Blathnata soon found out, could
make herself astonishingly useful. The kitchen was a little round hut,
which stood by itself behind the other cells. A fire of wood burned in
the middle of it, the smoke escaping through a hole in the roof. It was
always a joy to Darlugdacha when Blathnata swung the beautiful shining
cauldron over the flames, and the cheerful simmering of the meat within
filled the little hut with sound. She was very proud of herself when she
was, at last, permitted to go near enough to the fire to turn the fish,
or joints, that were roasting on spits of pointed hazel rods round the
fire, and proudest of all, when Blathnata showed her how to baste them
with honey. She was very young, indeed, when she cooked her first dish
of Craibhacan, chopping the meat fine, and flavouring it with leeks, and
kale, and rowan berries. Nathfraich, the charioteer, won her heart by
making for her a tiny kneading trough, and a sieve with a whale-bone
bottom, and he secured it for ever by manfully eating to the last crumb
the first cake she baked with these utensils. Kinnia said, as she and
Blathnata were carrying water one day from the covered well in the dairy
to the kitchen, and Darlugdacha was trotting along by their side (her
hand on one of the handles of the pail, as if she had the whole weight
of it herself), that, for her part, she would rather eat a woman’s
ration than a man’s ration of Darlugdacha’s baking. But when she saw
Darlugdacha, presently, with one of Blathnata’s cooking-aprons on her (so
as to save her white tunic), scrubbing away very busily at Blathnata’s
wooden vessels, the little woman looked so sweet, that Kinnia told
herself she would eat a whole cake, if it were necessary, to please her.
There was never such a busy little girl. When work was slack in the
kitchen, there was the dairy to keep her in occupation. Brigid herself
loved the dairy, and, mindful of her own young days, gave Darlugdacha
the freedom of it early. In the delicious dawn-hour, when the sisters,
one and all, went out to the milking, there was never a happier young
thing, whether among the lambs, or the birds, or the flowers, than the
tiny white maiden who trotted between Brigid and Daria, with each hand
in one of theirs, laughing back at Kinnia and Blathnata, who carried the
wooden milking vessels between them. She knew each of the cows by name,
and she would call them out in her clear voice the moment she passed out
of the door of the Lios, and came in sight of the “badhun” (bawn, _lit._
cow-fort), into which the cattle were driven each night for safety. And
when the gate of the badhun was reached, there they were waiting for
her—Bainidhe and Breacaidhe, and Sgead and Riabhac, and all the others,
lowing in answer. And the sound of their bells put the birds on the tops
of the apple-trees of the Lios, to shame.
It happened, however, one morning, that when Darlugdacha got to the gate
of the badhun, she found among the waiting, lowing herd, no Bainidhe—the
little white cow with the red ears, which was her special pet. It seemed
that two lepers had come to Brigid the day before, and the sight of their
miserable condition so prevailed with the compassionate Abbess that she
promised to give them the best cow in her byre, leaving the choice to
them. Of course, it naturally fell on Bainidhe.
Darlugdacha’s soft little heart was torn by two emotions when she heard
the explanation of Bainidhe’s absence. She was dreadfully sorry, to be
sure, for the poor lepers, whom she had learned to pray for night and
morning. But, I fear me, she was far more sorry for Bainidhe, driven away
from her nice, juicy pasturage, and the fragrant breath, and the lowing
of her companions, and the warm shelter of the badhun—and the stroking of
a little girl’s soft hand.
It was the turn of Brigid herself, that day, to drive the cows, after
milking, from the badhun, and herd them in the Curragh. Usually,
Darlugdacha would be out of herself with delight when it was proposed, as
it was now, that she should go with her. But to-day it was clear that the
delights of a day with the dear mother, all to herself, in the glorious
plain, were overshadowed by the loss of Bainidhe. So Brigid told Kinnia
to take Darlugdacha back with her to the dairy, and let her help to skim
the cream, and stand as near as ever she liked to the cuinneog (churn),
when the loinid (churn-dash) was beating the white milk-waves into flying
froth—which, on ordinary occasions, was not considered a suitable place
for a little girl, who had a white tunic to keep clean.
It took her some time before she was her cheerful little self again.
Even the pat of butter Kinnia gave her to stamp failed to bring her
consolation. But a good drenching in buttermilk froth helped her
wonderfully; and when Kinnia (who, I am afraid, was not guiltless in the
matter of that drenching) had wiped the small, rosy face dry again, she
felt inclined to give credence to Kinnia’s expressed faith that she would
see Bainidhe again before very long.
A greater number of poor came that day to the gate than usual.
Darlugdacha was kept very busy helping Kinnia to attend to their wants.
Here a poor woman wanted milk for her sick son; there a crippled girl had
come for butter; for a poor man with a large family there was a great
loaf of bread, with cheese and bacon, and a measure of milk. Now, as
Darlugdacha flew from the kitchen to the dairy, and thence to the gate,
she seemed to have in her ears all the time the lowing of Bainidhe. At
last, towards evening, when all the other poor had departed, there came a
great knocking with the “bas-chrannidhe” at the door; and when Kinnia and
Darlugdacha went to open it, what should they find before them but the
two lepers of the day before—and Bainidhe.
They had not been able to drive Bainidhe a single step beyond a certain
point in the plain, well within sight of the Oak Tree. And so they had
come back to ask Brigid to help them again.
Happy Darlugdacha, her small arms round Bainidhe’s white neck, her
small hand alternately stroking Bainidhe’s nose, or pulling her red
ear, was welcoming her restored darling, while Bainidhe was lowing with
contentment, and trying to tell how clever she had been, and Kinnia was
away with Blathnata in the kitchen, preparing a comfortable meal for the
two poor lepers. At that moment the tinkling of cow-bells was heard, and
Brigid came in sight, driving her cattle across the plain.
The lepers could not await her coming. They were off to meet her like
two flashes of lightning. And presently, over the lowing of the cattle
and the tinkling of the cow-bells, and the joyous barking of the
“cubuachaill” (_i.e._, “dog-cowherd,” sheep-dog), Darlugdacha could hear
their hoarse voices telling Brigid their story.
Then, quite suddenly, the tinkling of a cow-bell was heard from another
direction, and a man was seen coming from the North driving a cow before
him.
Darlugdacha left off stroking Bainidhe for a moment, and waited to see
what would happen.
Brigid and the lepers and _her_ cows came up with the stranger and _his_
cow just at the Lios gate.
“My Master has sent this cow to thee as a gift,” said the man, and put an
end of the halter that was round the cow’s neck in Brigid’s hand. With
that he was off again.
Brigid looked at the cow which she held haltered, and then at the one
Darlugdacha was stroking. And Darlugdacha looked at the new cow, and then
at Bainidhe, and then back again. _The two cows were exactly alike._
“Methinks _my_ Master has sent this cow to you, poor men,” said Brigid,
“instead of the one that would not go with you.” She put the halter into
the hands of the two lepers; and when Kinnia and Blathnata had given them
food, they drove off their new cow contentedly.
Since they did not come back for a long long time, I feel sure that the
second cow must have gone with them obediently. As for Bainidhe, she was
driven with her other companions into the badhun, and Darlugdacha stood
very close to her, while Brigid herself milked her.
In those days, when the ideal of education was the direct preparation of
the child for the duties which his future station in life was likely to
lay on him, the law itself took cognisance of the necessity of training
girls in the arts of household management. “The use of the quern, and
the kneading trough, and the use of the sieve are to be taught to their
daughters” says the _Senchus Mór_ to Foster Parents in one place; and,
again, to those who foster the children of Chieftains, “sewing, and
cutting-out, and embroidery are to be taught to their daughters.”
You may be sure then that Darlugdacha (whom Brigid held in fosterage for
the High King of Heaven Himself) was early trained in the use of the
spindle, and the distaff, and the needle. In the quiet evenings of the
tender Irish summer-time, when the nuns sat on the lawn under the shadow
of the great oak, and Brigid, her poet’s soul stirred to the depths by
the beauty of the world around her, was thinking, with pity, of Daria’s
blindness, a little girl could be seen making a very brave attempt to
imitate whatever she saw Kinnia, and Daria, and Blathnata, and Brigid
herself do. It was Daria’s task to comb the wool. She drew it out in
handfuls from the bag at her feet, and combed it with a pair of “cards”
until it was fit for spinning. Then she turned it over to Blathnata, who
wound it first loosely on the cuigeal (distaff), and then, dexterously,
spun it on to the spindle. Kinnia was kept busy with her bronze needle
and ball of wool, fashioning garments for the sisters themselves, or
for the many poor who depended on them. And, while Brigid’s clever
artist-fingers are copying on some beautiful ecclesiastical garment,
with many coloured, precious threads, the design stamped on the leather
pattern she holds before her, let us, whose fashionable pedagogy lays
so much stress on “Object Lessons,” think how fortunate Darlugdacha is.
There is not a process, from the sowing of the flax-seed to the making up
of the linen altar-cloth, that she has not witnessed with her own eyes.
She has been able to follow, step by step, the evolution of the woollen
garment which Kinnia is fashioning—from the shearing of the sheep onward.
In the winter evenings the sisters sat in the loom-house, and wove
the flaxen and woollen yarn they had prepared during the summer into
linen and cloth. Darlugdacha loved to sit by, in the light of the rush
candles, and watch the shuttle being flung back and forth. But something
more precious was being woven during these hours than the web on the
loom; and many a wonderful old story, many a gracious thought, many a
poem, and many a prayer, were being patterned into the weaving of it.
The old Irish, a people courteous and sociable, held no one cultured
who could not “talk” well. Story-telling, as a great test of education
and good breeding, was the accomplishment they valued most. Little
Darlugdacha, who was set aside to be the bride of the King of Kings,
was in the thought of those who fostered her to get the culture of a
Princess. Can you picture her, a little white girl, sitting very close
to her dear mother, telling, when the turn for a tale comes to her,
some story she has been taught concerning the ancient days and ways in
Erinn? Very sweetly and gravely the clear, treble voice carries the
tale. Do you notice how pleasant is its “timbre,” how very expressive
its inflections, how charming and musical its modulations? There is no
instrument from which better effects can be obtained than the human
“speaking” voice; and do they not do well, in this ancient Ireland, to
which we have slipped back in search of our Darlugdacha, to devote great
care to its cultivation? It is true they are fortunate in having in this
language they speak, rich in sounds, full of delicately-shaded endings,
a marvellous exerciser. And have we nothing to learn from Darlugdacha’s
teachers?
We have still other things to learn from Darlugdacha’s teachers. Those
story-telling lessons held many lessons in one. In a highly inflected
language, like Old Irish, to learn to tell a continuous tale was to
undergo, among other things, a thorough drill in Grammar. The material
of the tale was a storehouse of instruction in History and Geography.
The Memory-training, which we try to combine with an awakening of the
aesthetic faculties when we prescribe the memorising of poetry for our
youngsters, was admirably acquired by the same means. As for “Education,”
there was Character-training in those old tales that set the heart
beating for noble deeds, nobly done. Character-training, too, in the
reasoned patriotism they taught by showing why Ireland was a country to
be loved, and how to love her. Courtesy and Dignity ever hovered before
the apprentice story-teller as the ideal to be striven for. Courtesy
demanded the best of him, that it might be offered to his neighbour for
his neighbour’s pleasure. Dignity and Self-respect demanded the best of
him, that it might be worthy of himself.
You must not go away with the idea, however, that Darlugdacha’s
“Instruction” was all gained by learning to re-tell the old tales. She
had her reading and writing lessons, too. I like to think that the same
method was adopted with her to make her learn her letters, as was found
efficacious with Saint Columbkille. Perhaps Blathnata made a cake for
her—a nice cake with plenty of honey in it—and traced the alphabet on the
top of it. As Darlugdacha learned to know the letters, she could make her
very own of them, you see, by eating them. It may have required more than
one cake to make the process of instruction complete. No matter how many
were needed, I am sure Blathnata did not spare them.
At last, Darlugdacha had got beyond her alphabet cakes, and was all afire
to get helping the sisters to copy the psalter. Cilldara was a small
place in those days, and had no “Teach Screptra.”[5] But the books hung
in their leathern satchels from hooks along the walls of the Erdam (or
Sacristy) that opened off the little Church. Hither came the nuns in
turn to help to make the new copies, of which the Abbess had constant
need to bestow in alms on poor churches. Two or three other virgins had
joined the community since Darlugdacha’s coming; and one of them, the
daughter of a scribe, was particularly skilful at the work. Darlugdacha
was fascinated by it. She would stand for hours at a time watching the
clever pen go delicately over the vellum—and longing for the day when
she, too, would sit at a desk with a quill in her right hand, and a knife
in her left to keep it pointed, with her conical ink-cup fastened to
her chair-arm—a fully-equipped scribe. In the meantime, she was forced
to content herself with her fan-shaped, waxed tablets, on which she
practised copying with a metal “style.” When the wax surface was used up,
she rubbed it smooth, and began over again. Thus the little hands grew
sure and steady—and, at last, one day, on an old piece of vellum, they
tried their skill with the pen.
Down across the ages, from those exquisite days, fresh and beautiful as
the summer dawn, there has come to us a poem of Brigid’s. It sets us in
the midst of the preparations for a great Church Festival, where the
Guest of Honour was to be One Who, indeed, was never absent from the
midst of the white band of women whom the Oak Tree sheltered. For, was
not every act of theirs a prayer? And were they not gathered together in
His name? And hath He not made a promise? Nevertheless, it is fitting
that, at Easter time His Resurrection be honoured, and the poor and the
afflicted, His chosen representatives, be made joyful. So as the paschal
moon gets nearer and nearer to its white perfecting in the East, the
little hive beneath the Oak Tree grows busier. There is ale to be brewed
for the faithful who shall attend the Celebration of the Passion in the
neighbouring churches. There is corn to be ground in the querns, to be
ready for baking into paschal cakes, or dealt out to the needy. There are
candles for the altar to be made of virgin wax from the bee-hives in the
nuns’ scented garden. There is store of meat to be salted and cooked for
the banqueting table, spread for the poor. In the little wooden Church,
blind Daria, the sacristan, is laying out her choicest vestments, taking
from their places of safety the precious vessels. The altar linen, snowy
from the brook, stands ready. Around His Throne are flowers and fragrant
herbs.
And little Darlugdacha is flitting, like a white bird, in the midst of it
all, singing Brigid’s hymn—finding, in all this preparation, its mystic
significance, learning the reading of the Riddle of Life:—
I should like a great lake of ale
For the King of the Kings;
I should like the family of Heaven
To be drinking it through time eternal.
I should like the viands
Of belief and pure piety;
I should like flails
Of penance at my house.
I should like the men of Heaven
In my own house.
I should like kieves
Of peace to be at their disposal.
I should like vessels
Of charity for distribution;
I should like caves
Of mercy for their company.
I should like cheerfulness
To be in their drinking;
I should like Jesus
Here to be among them.
I should like the three
Marys of illustrious renown;
I should like the people
Of Heaven, there from all parts.
I should like that I should be
A rent-payer to the Lord;
That should I suffer distress,
He would bestow upon me a good blessing.
SAINT ELIZABETH
A Little German Schoolgirl of the Middle Ages