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 aftervisitationsto 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 calledScotice(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.)"
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.]
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 salachis literallydirty head. Other great families have not escaped nick-names.Cameronis crooked nose;Cromwell, crooked eye. (Hy Kinsalais 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.
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 theluirech(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."
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."
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.
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 setPikes 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.
"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."
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.'"
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 theUa Brainor O'Byrn of Wicklow.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.
"I am declinedInto the vale of years; yet that's not much."—Othello.It was the deep midsummer; the calm lakeLay 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 landIn undistinguished union. All was still,Save where at little distance a bright springLeapt 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, slowPacing along the shadow-dappled grassInto the trees' green twilight, steadfastlyThe 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 youthHad wooed and wedded a fair girl; so fair,So gentle, and so good that when she diedHis heart and love died too, and in her graveLay down, and he came forth a stricken man.
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 heartSent out a cry of agony for love;But no one heard—he sternly stifled it:Treading his path with dignity, he livedIn pride and honor, and he lived alone.He prayed for love, and in his autumn daysLove came upon him; but in such a sortAs, 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 withalSharp chastening as his wisdom sees most fit.Rhoda, the fairest of a sisterhoodWho were all fair, lived hard by the great house,Near to the lake; the daughter of a pairNot rich, yet blessed with slender competence.And sometimes in the park, or in the house,Whereto chance errands brought her, she would meetSir Richard, who to such as her showed everA gracious kindness, and would give to herA friendly greeting, sometimes with a wordOf question of her needs or her desires,Followed by such slight interchange of talkAs 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, exquisiteAs some rare picture, with pathetic eyesVeiled underneath long lashes; their shy glanceSeemed to reveal a soul whose tender depthsWere unprofaned by any earthly thought.Nor was it seeming only: she was good;And fenced her beauty with simplicity,Meek sense, and modest wisdom.
This he saw—He could not choose but see it; and he felt,When she was near, as if some soothing strainBreathed round him; and his secret soul was swayedWith unseen power, as sways the billowy cornSwept by the warm caresses of the wind.He knew what this portended. All in vainThe proud man struggled with his heart: he loved,And knew that he loved, Rhoda; all in vainHe strove to turn away from her fair face;He only gazed more tenderly: in vainStrove to speak coldly when he met her; stillHis 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 stillWith many a mute yet clearly speaking signSued for her love with sad humility.These things she never uttered to her heart;And if her thoughts half spoke, unwaveringlyShe put them by, and simply went her way.But he could fight no longer; and to-dayHe waited by the water, for he knewRhoda would pass that way, and he resolvedTo tell her all his secret, and to learnHis future from her lips, whether they spokeHope 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 seemedTo 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 wordsCame 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 knewAt once his secret from his pleading voiceAnd 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 wordsAre best for such confession. Can you love?"
But Rhoda could not answer. Naught was heardExcept 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 thoughtTo share with you the burden of my gloom,O'ershadowing your young years—an idle dreamThat one so old and desolate as ICould 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 forthOut 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 hearFar off the happy stockdove's brooding note.And so Sir Richard won his lovely wife.Once more the old house brightened; stately roomsRang with the unaccustomed sound of mirth:And still as years went on, Sir Richard woreAlways 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 ruggednessWith flowers and fairy grasses.
Near the parkTowers up a tract of granite; the huge hillsBear on their broad flanks right into the mistsVast sweeps of purple heath and yellow furze.It is the home of rivers, and the hauntOf great cloud-armies, borne on ocean blastsFar-stretching squadrons, with colossal strideMarching from peak to peak, or lying downUpon the granite beds that crown the heights.Yet for the dwellers near them these bleak moorsHave some strange fascination; and I ownThat, like a strong man's sweetness, to myselfPent in the smoky city, worn with toil,When the sun rends the veil, or flames unveiledOver those wide waste uplands, or when mistsFill the great vales like lakes, then break and rollSlow lingering up the hills as living things,Then do they stir and lift the soul; and thenTheir 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 parkAnd from the cares of state he often wentWith Rhoda, to enjoy some happy hoursThere face to face with nature—far awayFrom all the din and fume of human life,From paltry cares and interests, that corruptOr keep the soul in chains. They may be seenOn a great hill, on cloudless summer days,Or when the sun in autumn melts the clouds,Gazing on that magnificent region, spreadIn majesty below them: teeming plainsAnd 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 playBy giants; all around, authentic relicsOf those drear ages, when half-naked menRoamed these dim regions, waging doubtful warWith wolves and bears; and on the horizon's vergeThe pale blue waste of ocean. There they sit,Sir Richard and his Rhoda, side by sideTheir hearts aglow with love, their souls bowed downIn thankful adoration, scarce recalledFrom musings deep and tender, by the shoutsOf two fair children playing at their feet.October, 1866.
[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.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,thisis inspired,thisis not. How can he indeed? The revelation is not a thingapartfrom daily life, butthroughits 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.'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 newsjust 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,whoannounces to the multitude, who cannot enter into evidence about documents nor even read them, that Christ is their Redeemer? and who has anyrightto 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 preachunless 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?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. Howcantwo contradictory interpretations be true? Howcanany 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?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.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."