IN the mountain fastnesses of Caledonia beyond the Grampian Hills, lived a wild and hardy race of men known to their British neighbours as the Picts or "Painted People." The name had originally been bestowed on them by the Romans in allusion to their habit of going into battle with their bodies tattooed all over with strange devices. They were a brave and warlike tribe, who had resisted the landing of Agricola and his legions, and after several pitched battles had driven the Roman eagles triumphantly before them to the sea. In later days they became the terror of the Britons of Strathclyde and Northumbria, descending upon them in wild hordes and raiding their country without mercy. These men were the original ancestors of the Highlanders of Scotland, in whom the courage and the fighting spirit, typical of the race, have survived through all the vicissitudes of their country, and who to this day are acknowledged to be the bravest and hardiest of the soldiers of the Empire.
It was to this people, like himself of Celtic origin, that Columba was to carry the priceless gift of the faith, entering with a handful of unarmed men into the heart of the country which the Roman legions had feared to penetrate. Brude or Bmidh, the Pictish King, was entrenched in his fortress on a rocky hill near the site of Inverness. The little band of missionaries wound their way up the hill, chanting as they went a psalm of confidence in God. At their head was Columba, bearing aloft the cross. The tidings of their approach was brought to the Pictish King, who ordered that the gates of the fortress should be barred against them and admittance refused.
Broichem, the high-priest of the Druids, the foster-father and chief adviser of King Brude, was probably responsible for the order, for, the Christians once admitted, he feared that his influence would be no longer supreme. Columba, however, was not in the least daunted by this inhospitable reception. He made the sign of the Cross before the barred gates and struck them strongly with his clenched fist. Bolts and bars shot back at his touch, and silently the great gates rolled open to give the Saint and his companions passage. The King, who had seen the marvel together with all his Court, was struck with fear, and went to meet Columba with fair and peaceful words. From henceforth he treated him with reverence and courtesy, confirming to him the gift of Iona, which might be considered to lie as much in his territory as in that of the Dalriadan king, and remaining throughout his lifetime a true friend and protector.
It was not until some time later that he became a Christian, but the Druids could foresee the results of his friendly intercourse with the missionaries, and resolved not to lose their influence without a struggle. Their bitter enmity was to follow Columba for years, and to be the chief hindrance to his work amongst the Picts.
The religion of the Druids of Caledonia differed in some degree from that of the Druids of Britain. The people were taught to worship the sun, the rivers and the forests. Certain of the streams and wells which were, said the Druid priests, under the influence of a beneficent spirit, were wholesome and good to drink, while to taste of others which they declared to be under the rule of evil spirits, would be followed by instant death.
The first thing to be done was to convince the people of the falsity of their belief and to make them cease the idolatrous practices connected with it. Columba drank in their presence of the water that was supposed to be deadly, to prove to them that no evil effects would follow. The Druids pursued him wherever he went, interrupting him continually in his preaching, holding him up to the derision of the people, and misrepresenting what he said. Columba bore all their insults with patience; but when it came to trying to drown the missionaries' voices in the singing of the psalms of the Church with shouts and mocking cries, his zeal for God's glory overcame for once his meekness, and he intoned the holy chant in such a voice of thunder that his adversaries were silenced, and the King and his people trembled with fear.
In spite of the Druids, crowds flocked to hear the preaching of Columba, and many were converted to the faith. On one occasion, shortly after the conversion to Christianity of a whole family, the eldest son fell ill and died. The Druids were of course at hand to assure the sorrowing father that the loss of his child was a well-merited punishment indicted by the gods of his country in consequence of his apostasy. The man's faith wavered, but Columba was watching over his converts; and after doing what he could to console the grief of the boy's parents, asked to be left alone beside the bier to pray. With tears and entreaties he besought of God to show forth His almighty power, and the Heavenly Father heard the prayer of His servant and raised the child to life. Columba led him to his parents, and their faith in the true God was confirmed for ever. The prayer of Columbcille, says Adamnan his biographer, was as powerful with God as that of Elias and Eliseus in the old law, and Peter, John, and Paul in the new.
One day when the Saint was preaching the Gospel in the island of Skye, he had one of those flashes of supernatural insight of which we have spoken several times before. He told his companions that there would come to them that very day an old Pictish chief who was at the point of death, and who had tried to lead a good life according to the natural law of God and the light of his own conscience.
It happened as he had foretold. Towards evening a boat was seen approaching the coast of Skye, manned by Pictish warriors supporting in their arms an old man whose trappings proclaimed him to be of noble birth. Drawing their boat to the shore, they landed and formed a rude litter with their shields, on which they carried the old chieftain up the hill and laid him down at Columba's feet. The Saint spoke to the dying man of the faith of Christ and baptized him, and shortly afterwards he gave up his soul to God.
On another occasion when they were crossing the mountains, Columba saw a vision of angels, and exhorted his companions to hasten on their way. "For," said he, "there is a man of good and honest life waiting beyond the hills to receive baptism before he dies." They quickened their pace, and when they reached Glen Urquhart, found, as Columba had predicted, an old man awaiting their arrival. The holy abbot baptized him and bade him depart in peace, and the angels whom he had seen on the mountains carried his soul to heaven.
The chief Druid Broichem had a young Irish slave-girl, taken captive in time of war, for whose freedom Columba had several times petitioned. The Druid, who was not likely to look favourably on any request of the great Christian missionary, even refused to accept the ransom offered for the girl, though she was pining her heart out for her family and her home.
Columbcille warned him that if he persistently refused to show mercy to his captive, the punishment of God would overtake him, and he would die before Columba himself left the country, but Broichem was not to be moved. Not long afterwards Columba set out on his return journey to Iona, but he had hardly reached Loch Ness when he was overtaken by two messengers from the high-priest beseeching him to take pity on their master, who had been suddenly taken ill and was in danger of death.
They were assured that the Druid would recover, but only on condition that he set the Irish maiden at liberty. She was at once sent to Columba, who found means for her return to her country and her people. As for Broichem, he was more incensed than ever against the Christians, and considered how he could best check their growing influence with the people.
The Druids seem to have had a certain power over the elements, perhaps through the evil spirits whom they worshipped. They had heard of and seen the miracles worked by Columba, and resolved to show how superior their powers of magic were to his.
On the day fixed for the departure of the missionaries, Broichem threatened that he would cause a thick fog and a contrary wind to arise, so that it would be impossible for them to embark.
The people were gathered in crowds to bid farewell to Columba, when to their great consternation the Druid's threat was fulfilled. The fog was dense and the unfavourable wind blew stormily. This time at least they had triumphed, or so they thought, and they did not attempt to conceal their joy.
But Columba, nothing daunted, bade the mariners spread their sails, and the awe-stricken crowd on the shore beheld the boat flying swiftly westwards to Iona in the teeth of the contrary wind, as if it had been altogether in their favour.
The departure was not to be for long. Again and again Columba revisited the mainland to strengthen and confirm the faith of his converts; and in course of time churches and monasteries sprang up amongst the forests and the mountains of Caledonia, little strongholds of Christianity the beneficent influence of which was soon to penetrate throughout the length and breadth of the land.
Columba had many faithful helpers in his missionary labours. Malruve, a kinsman and countryman of his own, soon followed him to Iona to share in his work among the Picts. He became abbot of Appercrossan, now Applecross, on the north-west coast of Caledonia, and suffered the "red martyrdom" some years after the death of Columbcille, at the hands of Norwegian pirates. St. Canice, the companion of Columba and Ciaran at Clonard and Glasnevin, also followed his old friend across the sea. He founded a monastery and a church on the shore of Loch Lagan, and another in Fifeshire. St. Kenneth, as the Scotch called him, was noted for his eloquence and learning, and wrote a commentary on the four Gospels which was much valued in his day.
Drostan, one of the most beloved of the first companions of Columba, was chosen to govern a monastery founded on the east coast in the present district of Buchan. When he realized that the breadth of Scotland would henceforward separate him from the brethren whom he loved, and the father of his soul, he wept so bitterly that Columba declared that the new foundation should be called the "place of tears," and Déar (Deer) it remains to this day, to prove to us that the religious life has not the effect, as some people suppose, of hardening the hearts and freezing the affections of those who embrace it, but asks only that love go hand in hand with sacrifice in order that it may be conformed to the love of Christ.
COLUMBA had been eleven years at Iona when Conal, the King of the Scottish Dalriada, died. He was succeeded by Aidan, his cousin, whose love and veneration for Columbcille led him to choose him for his "soul's friend," and to beg him to come himself to place the crown upon his head and to pray that the grace of God might be with him in his governing. Columba assented to his request, and so it came to pass that the solemn rite of the consecration of a king was performed for the first time in the British Isles.
Aidan was crowned on the famous "Stone of Destiny" which was afterwards removed to Scone and was used as the coronation chair for the Kings of Scotland, until Edward I, "the Hammer of the Scots," carried it away and set it up in Westminster Abbey. Perhaps it was as well for the peace of mind of the ruthless oppressor that he could not look into the future, and see how the royal line of Scotland would in course of time follow the Stone of Destiny, and, crowned once more upon it, rule over the United Kingdom.
For Aidan was the ancestor of Macbeth and Malcolm Canmore, and throughthe female line, of the Bruces and the Stuarts, while many of the oldHighland families, such as the Mackenzies, MacKinnons, Mackintoshes,Macgregors, Macleans and Macnabs, count their descent from theDalriadan kinsmen of Columba.
The little kingdom had become powerful, and the yearly tribute to Ireland was galling to the pride of the Scots. They would fain have cast off the Irish yoke, and were quite ready to fight for their independence, but Columba bade them have patience, and all would be well. Diarmaid, his old enemy, had died a violent death, and Aedh MacAinmire, who was of Columba's own branch of the Hy-Nialls, now sat on the throne of Ireland: the time seemed ripe for the Saint to use his influence on behalf of Dalriada.
A large assembly or convention was about to be held at Drum-ceatt nearDerry, to decide several important questions, some of which interestedColumba nearly. It was a fitting moment, he thought, to obtain whatthey desired; and taking the King of Dalriada with him he set sail forIreland.
The chief question which the Irish parliament had met to discuss, was the abolition or the banishment of the Bards. This ancient order of national poets dated from the earliest times, and in olden days had shared the power of the Druids. They were the guardians of the poetry, the history and the music of Ireland, and were held in such honour that the first place at table, after that reserved for the King, was theirs by right. A chief poet was entitled to a retinue of thirty men, and the Bards of a lower grade to fifteen. They had been loaded with honours by those of the princes and kings of Ireland who desired to have their brave deeds in battle handed down to their children or held up to the admiration of their rivals in the songs of the country.
Many abuses had arisen from such an exercise of power. The Bards in course of time had become thoroughly unpopular, and had only themselves to blame for the change of feeling towards them, for even their best friends could not defend their conduct. People had grown weary of an insolence that refused to sing the praises of the heroes and warriors of Erin unless at a price that few could afford to pay, and the Bards threatened to hold up those who displeased them to the contempt and ridicule of the nation.
The King went so far as to drive them from his palace, but so secure were they of their own power that they had the boldness to come back, and to demand of him the royal brooch that he wore upon his breast, the very token of his kingship. Beside himself with anger, the King announced his intention of doing away completely with the order of the Bards at the great Convention which was about to be held at Drum-ceatt, and their enemies, who were not few, resolved to see the threat carried out.
The Bards realized at last that they had gone too far, they could scarcely find a friend to speak for them, the situation was wellnigh hopeless. In their distress they thought of Columba, who had always befriended their order, and sent him a piteous message that their ruin was certain unless he would use his influence in their favour.
The Convention was largely attended. The two kings presided, and the presence of Columba, in company with many other abbots and bishops, gave dignity and order to the councils. The first question raised was that of the supremacy of Ireland over the Scots of Dalriada. Columba was asked to give his opinion, but fearful of being unduly influenced by his affection for Aidan, he asked his friend St. Colman to plead the cause of liberty. It was decided that Dalriada should cease to pay tribute and become an independent kingdom, on the condition that she promised a perpetual alliance with Ireland. The great question of the Bards came next, and on this subject the King himself was the first to speak. Their insolence, their idleness, and their greed, he said, had made them odious in the eyes of the whole nation. He therefore appealed to the assembly to banish them and to do away with all their privileges.
Not a voice was raised in their defence, and in another moment their fate would have been decided, when Columba rose to speak. The whole assembly did him reverence, and his clear voice rang out with all its old charm over the hearts of his countrymen.
It was true, he said, that the Bards had greatly abused their power; let therefore the abuses be corrected, let their power be diminished, let the guilty be punished. But if the great Bardic order were abolished, who would be left to make the records of the nation, to sing the noble deeds of its heroes or to lament the death of the brave? Where would be the glory of Erin? Why should the good grain be torn up with the tares? The poetry of Ireland, which was dear to her as her life, would perish for ever, were the order of poets to be destroyed.
The eloquent pleading of Columba carried all before it. It was decreed that the order should be reformed and that regular schools should be founded for the study of the literature of the nation, where the young poets might be brought up to devote their lives to their art, and to avoid the bad habits that had made the order so unpopular with the people. The Bards, who were themselves present at the assembly under the leadership of their chief, Dallan Forgaill, showed their gratitude to Columba by composing a poem in his praise. They wisely allowed themselves to be guided by his advice in their plans for reform, and in the establishment of the schools to which Ireland owes the preservation of the old chronicles and of the ancient literature in which she is so rich. They justified the plea of their protector and became faithful auxiliaries of the clergy, singing in the times of persecution the glory of the heroes and the Saints of Erin, and the beauty of the ancient faith.
When the assembly broke up, Columba paid a visit to Aedh in his royal palace, when he sought and obtained the freedom of Scandlan Mor, son of the King of Ossory, whom the High King of Ireland had unjustly detained in prison. The eldest son of Aedh was perhaps a little uneasy at the prospect of the visit, for he had received a severe reproof from the Saint for holding the monks of Iona up to ridicule; but Domnal, his younger brother, attached himself to Columbcille with a boy's enthusiastic admiration for all that is great and noble. Columba was delighted with the manly young prince, and prophesied that his reign would be a long and happy one, on condition that he "received the Holy Communion every week, and tried to keep his promises." He would also, he said, "die on his own feather-bed," a rare enough thing in the days when a King of Ireland was pretty sure to fall on the field of battle or to perish by the hand of an assassin.
Aedh himself had reason to be uneasy about the state of his soul, and asked Columba if any of the princes who had died during his reign were in heaven. He was told that three only had escaped the pains of purgatory and had entered into everlasting bliss.
"And I," asked the King, "shall I save my soul?"
"Not unless you repent heartily of all your sins and lead a better life," replied Columba; and Aedh resolved to take his advice.
To all the princes of Ireland, especially to those who were of his own blood, Columbcille preached compassion and mercy towards their enemies, the forgiveness of injuries, and the recall of exiles. Many of the latter had passed by Iona as they went to seek shelter in a strange land, and his heart had grieved with them in their sorrow.
He resolved also to visit his religious foundations in Ireland before he returned to the country of his adoption, and we can imagine the joy of the monks of Derry and Durrow who had never thought to look upon their beloved father's face again. The people came out in crowds to welcome him and carried a canopy of green branches over his head. Adamnan tells us of the miracles worked by the Saint on his journey, and how the labourers would leave their work as he passed and go before him singing hymns of joy.
As he was about to enter one of the monasteries, a poor little boy, who was looked upon by everybody as an idiot on account of his stammering tongue and vacant eye, crept through the crowd and took hold of the border of Columba's cloak. The Saint turned round, and taking the child in his arms embraced him tenderly.
"Show me your tongue," he said to the little boy, who was trembling with fear; and then, making the sign of the Cross over him, he turned to the bystanders, who were vexed that he should pay so much attention to an idiot.
"This child whom you despise so much," he said, "will grow daily in wisdom and virtue; God will give to him eloquence and power; and when he has grown to man's estate he will be counted amongst the great ones of his country."
The Saint's prophecy came true. The little idiot boy grew into the great St. Ernan, venerated both in Ireland and Scotland; and it was he himself who told the story to the abbot Adamnan who wrote the great life of Columbcille.
THE visitation of the Irish monasteries completed, Columba returned to Iona. But it was no longer as an exile that he left the shores of Erin. This time it was to "Hy of his love, and Hy of his heart" that he was bound—to the country that had become dear to him as the land of his adoption and of his mission; where he had suffered and striven for his Master's sake, and where his work had been blessed beyond all that he had hoped or dreamed.
It is especially during the last few years of Columba's life on earth that we can see how the natural fire and arrogance of his nature had been gradually transformed into the gentleness and charity of Christ. It was not without many a struggle that the transformation took place; but Columbcille was a man of great heart and of determined will; what he set himself to do was sure to be done. Now he had set himself—with God's grace—to self-conquest, and the work, though not to be completed in a day nor yet in a year, was at last by dint of prayer and patience gloriously achieved. The gentleness of a naturally strong and fiery temperament won—so to speak—at the sword's point, is always an extraordinary force in the world, and we find the power of Columba over his fellow-men and his influence with them for good increasing every year.
St. Fintan, one of the Saint's first companions in Iona, was asked once towards the end of Columba's life to describe him to one who had heard much of his holiness, but who did not know him.
"He is a king amongst kings," answered Fintan, "a sage amongst wise men, a monk amongst monks. He is poor with God's poor; a mourner with those who weep, and joyful with those who rejoice. Yet amidst all the gifts of nature and of grace that have been so liberally showered on him by God, the true humility of Christ is as royally rooted in his heart as if it were its natural home."
He was the father, the brother and the friend of all who were in want or distress; the dauntless champion of the oppressed and of the weak, the avenger of all who suffered wrong. His prayers and blessing were sought by all the navigators of the stormy seas of the Hebrides as a defence against the dangers of the deep; while during his journeys on the mainland the people would bring out their sick and lay them in his path, that they might touch the hem of his cloak or receive his benediction as he passed. Their simple faith was not in vain: many were the miraculous cures wrought by the Saint, whose prayers were as powerful with God as those of St. Peter and St. John, and with whom he might have said "silver and gold I have none, but what I have I give thee."
He would visit rich and poor alike, and it was often in the houses of the latter that he met with the truest hospitality. He would find out with gentle tact what were the means of his humble hosts, and plan ways of increasing their little store. Once when he was passing through Lochaber on his way to visit King Bruidh in his royal palace, he was offered a lodging in the house of a poor peasant and kindly entertained with the best that the poverty of the house could furnish. In the morning when the little Highland cows of his host were being driven out to pasture, Columbcille blessed them, and foretold that they would increase until in course of time they would number five hundred, and that the blessing of a grateful traveller would rest upon the man and his family.
Columba took an observant interest in all the things of nature, and was often able to advise the peasants how to improve the simple methods of farming, hunting, and fishing on which their daily food depended. On one occasion he profited by the hospitality shown to him by a rich Highland chief to put an end to a deadly feud which in true Highland fashion had existed for many years between his host and one of his neighbours. The enemies were reconciled, and both became fast friends of the peacemaker.
Tender-hearted as Columba was to all who were in sorrow and distress, to none did his ready sympathy extend more fully than to those who were exiles from their native land, for he remembered the early days of his own sojourn in Iona. One of his special friends was a Pictish chief of noble birth who had received him on the occasion of his first missionary journey to Caledonia and treated him with generous hospitality. Some time after he fell into disgrace and was banished from the country. Columba appealed in his favour to Feradagh, the chief of the island of Islay, whom he begged to give shelter and protection to the exile, while he tried what his influence could do with the Pictish king to obtain his friend's recall. Feradagh, after promising hospitality to the fugitive, murdered him treacherously for the sake of his possessions. The news was brought to Columbcille, who cried out in indignation that the punishment of God would overtake the traitor before he had tasted of the flesh of the boars that he was fattening for his table.
Feradagh laughed at the threat but was not a little uneasy, for he had heard of the strange way in which Columba's prophecies were wont to come true. He had a boar killed without loss of time and roasted, in order to reassure himself that this time at least the Saint had been wrong. As he sat down to table, he fell down from his seat and died, to the fear and consternation of his followers.
A certain chief named Donnell, who with his sons and followers feared neither God nor man, was the terror of all the neighbouring country. Although he could claim kinship with the King of Dalriada, Columba excommunicated him for his deeds of violence, and he and his family vowed vengeance on the Saint. Taking advantage of a journey that Columba was making to a neighbouring island with only one or two companions, one of the sons of Donnell resolved to murder him as he slept. But one of Columbcille's companions, a monk named Finn Lugh, was beset that night with an unaccountable fear for the safety of his holy abbot, and begged him to lend him his cowl, in which he wrapped himself and lay down to sleep. In the dead of night the assassin crept upon the little band of travellers, and, seeking out the monk who wore the abbot's cowl, stabbed him, and fled to a place of safety. But the garment of the Saint protected the man who was ready to give his life for his master, and Finn Lugh escaped without a wound.
Another lawless member of the same family fell upon and robbed a man who lived upon the rocky peninsula of Ardnamurchan, and had constantly shown hospitality to Columba on his journeys. The blessing of the Saint had brought him good fortune, and his little patrimony had increased year by year. The people, in honour of the affection shown him by the holy abbot, called him "Columbain" or "the friend of Columba." As the robber was returning, laden with the spoils of the poor man, to the boat that was awaiting him at the water's edge, he met Columba himself, whom he had supposed to be safely distant at Iona. The Saint reproved him sternly for his crimes, and bade him restore the goods that he had stolen. The robber chief maintained a grim silence until he was safely in his boat and well out from the shore. Then he stood up, and bursting into a storm of insults and evil words, shouted defiance and derision at Columbcille as long as his voice could be heard. The oppression of the helpless never failed to rouse Columba's wrath. He strode out into the water after the retreating boat, and, raising his arms to heaven, prayed that justice might be done on the robber. Then returning quietly to his companions he said to them, "That wicked man who despises Christ in His poor will return no more to these shores. The cup of his iniquity is full." Shortly afterwards a storm arose, and the boat with all that were in it sank like a stone between Mull and Colonsay.
But it was not only to the poor and the oppressed that Columba's charity was shown. We find him at the Court of King Aidan, holding his young son Hector "the Blond" in his arms and praying that his life might be as fair as his features. To the nobles who kept the laws of God he was as devoted a friend as he was a steadfast opponent of those who outraged them. To the penitent he was full of mercy and hope, and many sinners were persuaded by his eloquence and power to forsake their evil ways.
But nowhere was his charity more clearly shown than with his own community at Iona. He foresaw the needs of all, and watched over his spiritual sons with a fatherly love and care. During one of the last summers of his life when the monks were coming back in the evening after a day of harvesting, they stopped short at a little distance from the monastery to enjoy the sense of peace and consolation that seemed to come to meet them as they approached their home.
"How is it," asked one of the younger brethren, "that at this spot every night when we return from our daily labours, our hearts rejoice, our burdens grow light, and the very perfume of heaven seems borne to us on the breeze?"
"I will tell you," said Baithen, the beloved friend and successor of Columba. "Our saintly abbot, whose heart is with us in our work, is praying for us and longing for our safe return. His heart is heavy with our weariness, and, having no longer the strength to come in the body to meet us and help us with our burdens, he sends forth the blessing and the prayer of his soul to refresh and console us on our way."
Not only his fellow-men but all the creatures of God were dear toColumba for their Creator's sake. One day he bade a certain monk atIona go down to the seashore and watch.
"For," said the Saint, "ere the night falls a weary guest will arrive to us from Ireland, faint and ready to die. Succour her and tend her carefully for three days, and when she is rested and refreshed let her go, that she may return once more to her native land." The guest was a poor storm-driven crane which fell on the shore exhausted at the brother's feet. He bore it tenderly to the monastery and cared for it as his master had bidden. In the evening Columba met the monk and blessed him for his compassion to the weary stranger; and, as he had foretold, on the third day, strengthened and refreshed the bird took its flight back to Erin.
WE have already seen how it was often given to St. Columba to know of events that were happening far away from the place where he might be, and how by his gift of prophecy he could sometimes foretell what would come to pass in the future. As he grew older it seemed to those who knew him intimately that these flashes of supernatural insight became more frequent, and that the things of the next world were growing daily more familiar to him as the time of his earthly pilgrimage drew to an end. Many instances of this have been recorded by his biographers.
One morning at Iona when the Mass was about to be celebrated, Columba sent word to the priest whose turn it was to offer the Holy Sacrifice that day, to do it in honour of the glorious birthday of St. Brendan. The monk could not understand his abbot's behest as no word had reached Iona of the holy Brendan's death. Columba then told him that during the night he had seen in a vision the soul of Brendan ascending to heaven surrounded by a great company of rejoicing angels; he knew therefore that he had entered into his rest.
On another occasion he ordered that the Mass for the feast of a bishop should be sung. Now there was no feast marked in the calendar for that day, and the monks asked their holy abbot to tell them the name of the bishop in whose honour the Holy Mysteries were to be celebrated.
"Last night," he replied, "I saw the soul of Columban, the Bishop of Leinster, in heaven, surrounded with the glory of the blessed; it is in his honour that we must offer the Holy Sacrifice to-day."
Columba had a deep love and reverence for all honest labour done for God. One night he told his monks that he had just seen entering into heaven the soul of a blacksmith whom he had known long ago in Ireland.
"He has bought eternal life," he said, "with the labours of the earthly. He was charitable and gave of his poverty to the poor, therefore the Lord of the Poor has rewarded him."
In the course of his travels in the Highlands he met one day in a lonely gorge a countryman in great distress. He was returning from a journey, and had heard that during his absence from home, a band of Saxon marauders had laid waste his little farm and burnt his house to the ground. He was in an anguish of fear lest his wife and children should have perished. Columba comforted him with kind words.
"Go in peace, my good man," he said, "your cattle and all your possessions have, it is true, been carried off by the robbers; but God has been merciful. Your dear little family is safe; go, for your loved ones are waiting for you, and comfort their sorrowing hearts."
Again, a year after the attempt had been made to murder Columba and the monk Finn Lugh had saved his life, the Saint asked his companion if he remembered the occurrence.
"It is just a year ago to-day," he said, "since Donnell tried to murder me, and our dear Finn Lugh would have given his life for mine. At this very moment the would-be murderer has been struck down by an enemy in punishment for his evil deeds."
One of the Saxon converts of the Saint had joined the community at Iona, and had been given charge of the bakehouse. Columba would often go to encourage him in his labours and to speak to him of the things of God. One day the Saxon saw him suddenly raise his eyes to heaven and join his hands in prayer. "Happy, happy woman," he cried, "to whom it is given to enter into the heavenly kingdom, carried by the hands of the angels."
A year afterwards when speaking to the same man, he said to him, "Do you remember the woman whose soul I saw a year ago ascending into heaven? I see her now coming to fetch the soul of her husband who is just dead. She is fighting with her prayers for that beloved soul against the powers of evil, and the angels are praying with her. See! she conquers, she bears him off, for he has led a good and upright life, and the two who loved each other so dearly on this earth are united for ever in the joy and glory of heaven."
Columbcille seems indeed to have had some such intimation from God of the death of the greater number of his friends; a vision of the glory of that celestial country into which he was himself soon to enter, and after which he sighed with such ardent longing. If the angels had been with him in his youth, much more did they surround him in his later years.
Many stories are told of his celestial visions as he prayed in the forests of Skye, dear to him for their loneliness and silence. One dy, when he was at Iona he went out, giving orders that no one was to follow him. He was going to pray, he said, on a little hill to the west of Iona, which was one of his favourite retreats. One young brother, more curious than the rest, had heard strange tales about the holy abbot, and followed him carefully from afar to see what was going to happen. When he had come within a short distance of the place of prayer, he saw the Saint standing with arms raised to heaven, surrounded by a troop of white-robed angels. The young monk, trembling lest he should be discovered, made his way back to the monastery as quickly as he could.
When Columba rose during the night as was his habit to kneel in prayer on the cold floor of his cell, his heavenly visitors would throng around him, mingling their praise with his. It was not surprising that the things of heaven should be so near to one who cared so little for the things of earth. He would go out on a winter's night, says his biographer, and stand in the waters of an icy stream during the time it took him to recite the Psalter, that he might obtain grace by his sufferings for the souls of the obstinate sinners who refused to amend their lives. One day when he was praying in a lonely spot, a poor woman came in sight gathering wild herbs and nettles. Columba spoke to her and asked her what she was doing.
"I am gathering herbs for food," she replied, "for I have but one cow and it gives no milk; the poor must live as they can." Columba reproached himself bitterly that this poor woman should fare worse than he did. "We seek to win heaven," he cried, "by our austerities, and this poor woman, who is under no such obligation, outdoes us." Henceforward he declared he would make his meal of the wild herbs and nettles that he had seen her gathering, and gave strict orders that nothing else should be served to him. He even reproved Baithen, whom he so dearly loved, with unwonted severity, because, unable to bear the sight of his abbot's wretched fare, he had put a little piece of butter into the pot in which it was being cooked.
The heavenly light that the holy Brendan had seen surrounding Columba on that memorable day at Teilte was now frequently beheld by his companions. At night it could be seen shining through the chinks in the rough door of his little cell when all was in darkness, and the silence of the night was only broken by the voice of the holy abbot praying and singing the praises of God.
One winter's night, one of the younger brethren had remained in the church to pray after all had gone to rest. At midnight the door opened softly and Columba entered. A glory of golden light came with him, illuminating the church from wall to wall and from floor to roof. The little chapel where the brother knelt was flooded with the strange radiance and his soul was filled with a heavenly consolation. Columba knelt for many hours in prayer, and still the heavenly light shone round him as he prayed; while the brother watched him awestruck, scarcely daring to move for fear of being heard. The next day he was sent for by the abbot, who blessed him and gently bade him say nothing of what he had seen during the night.
Two of his religious, Baithen the beloved, and Diarmaid his faithful attendant, who were often in his cell to help him with his work and to carry out his instructions, noticed one day a sudden ray of joy shining from their master's eyes. A moment later the joyful expression gave place to one of intense sadness, and they begged Columba to reveal to them what it was that caused him grief.
"My children," said the Saint, "it is twenty years to-day since I first set foot in Caledonia. Earnestly I have been beseeching our Heavenly Father to bring my days of exile to an end, and to receive me into the heavenly country after which our hearts must ever yearn. It seemed to me that God had heard my prayer, and that I already saw the holy angels coming to bear my soul to its eternal Home, when suddenly they faded from my sight, and I saw them no more. It has been revealed to me that by reason of the prayers of those who love me on earth, the time of my sojourning has been prolonged. Therefore am I sad, beloved of my heart, because four long years must elapse before those heavenly messengers return. Then they will come once more and I shall depart with them to rejoice for ever in the presence of my God."
IT was towards the end of May, when the late northern springtime was casting its veil of beauty over the rugged islands of the Hebrides, that Columbcille knew that the time of his departure was at hand. He bade his faithful attendant Diarmaid harness the oxen into the rude wooden cart of the monastery, and taking his seat in it set out for the fields that lay to the west of the island where all the monks were working. At the sight of the abbot in his humble chariot they left their work and crowded round him, and the old man addressed them tenderly with touching words of affection.
"A month ago," he said, "I had a great desire to depart from this earth, that I might keep the happy festival of Easter in heaven; but, unwilling to cast a gloom over your joy at that glad time, I was content to remain with you a little longer. But now the time of my earthly pilgrimage draws near its end." At these words the monks broke into bitter weeping, for the thought of losing their beloved father was more than they could bear, and Columba tried to comfort them. Then standing erect in the waggon he raised his hands and blessed the island, the monastery and all its inhabitants.
A few days later, leaning on Diarmaid's arm, he went to the barn and rejoiced to see the great heaps of corn laid up for the winter. "It is a comfort to me to know," he said, "that when I am no longer there my children will not go hungry. For this year at least there is plentiful provision."
"Why do you break our hearts, dear Father, in this sweet season of the year," said Diarmaid, "by speaking so often of your departure from us? God will surely suffer us to keep you with us yet awhile."
"I will tell you a secret, Diarmaid," replied the old man; "but first you must promise to keep it faithfully till I am dead."
And when Diarmaid had promised, kneeling at the abbot's feet, "To-morrow, Sunday, is the day of rest," he said, "but before the dawning of that day, I shall have entered into the rest which is eternal. To-night at midnight I shall depart from this world; it has been revealed to me by our Lord Jesus Christ Himself."
Then Diarmaid could no longer control his grief and wept aloud while the Saint did his best to comfort him, speaking words of hope and consolation. On their way home from the barn to the monastery Columba grew weary, and sat down to rest by the wayside, at a spot where there is now a great stone cross. As he sat there waiting until he should have strength to continue his journey, the old white horse that used to carry the milk pails from the farm to the monastery came up and laid its head upon the Saint's shoulder, looking at him as if he knew that it was for the last time, with eyes so full of dumb grief that they seemed to be shedding tears. Diarmaid would have driven him away, but Columba checked him.
"Let him be," he said; "he is wiser than you, Diarmaid, for he knows by instinct that I shall never pass by this way again. The old horse loves me, let him grieve for his friend."
Then the faithful animal nestled his head closer against the shoulder of the old man, who caressed him gently and gave him his blessing. "It is God," he said, "who has made known to this poor beast that he will see me no more." When continuing their journey they had reached the little hill that overlooked the monastery, Columba raised his hands in blessing over his beloved island home.
"This place will be famous in the days to come," he said, "and saints and kings will come from other lands to do it honour."
When he reached his cell he sat down to write the copy of the Psalter on which he was engaged, for the old man's hand had not lost its skill. He wrote until the church bell rang for the first vespers of the Sunday; then, having reached the verse in the thirty-third Psalm where it is written "They that seek the Lord shall not be deprived of any good," he laid down the pen.
"Let Baithen write the rest," he said.
Baithen was the cousin of Columba, and one of the monks who had come with him from Derry. He had been his pupil, and was scarcely less skilful with the pen than his master. Holy, charitable, and beloved by all, he was chosen to succeed Columbcille as abbot of Iona. When he took up the pen that the Saint had laid down to go on with the work of transcription, the words that came next were, "Come ye children, hearken unto me, and I will teach you the fear of the Lord," with which words he began his ministry as abbot.
When Vespers were over, Columba went back to his cell and sitting down upon his bed—the naked rock with a stone for a pillow that was still the only couch on which this monk of seventy-seven would rest his aged limbs—he bade Diarmaid listen while he gave him his last instructions for the brethren.
"My last words to you are these," said he. "Cherish true and unfeigned charity ever amongst yourselves, and God will never leave you in need, but will give you all that is necessary for your welfare in this world, and His glory in that which is to come."
After these words he was silent, and seemed to be lost in the contemplation of the glory of which he had spoken, and Diarmaid forbore to interrupt his prayer. When the bell rang for matins shortly before midnight, Columba arose, and went swiftly to the church. Diarmaid followed more slowly, and as he approached the door, the whole church seemed to him to be lit up with a strangely radiant light which vanished as he entered. "Where are you, Father?" he whispered, struck with a sudden fear, as he groped his way through the building. There was no answer. He made his way through the darkness as best he could to the altar.
There in his accustomed place of prayer was the holy abbot, but stretched apparently lifeless on the ground. Diarmaid raised him in his arms, and sitting down beside him laid the beloved head upon his shoulder. Presently the brethren came in with lights, and broke into bitter lamentation at the scene before them. Columba lay on the altar steps leaning on Diarmaid's breast, his eyes raised to heaven, and his face shining with a wondrous joy as if he already saw its gates opening before him. Diarmaid then raised his master's right hand, and for the last time the holy abbot blessed his little flock who knelt weeping round him, while his eyes spoke the words that his voice was too weak to utter. Then with one last upward look his head sank gently back on Diarmaid's shoulder and he gave up his pure soul to God. They could scarcely believe that he was dead, for his face was still so bright with joy that he looked like one who rested in a happy and peaceful sleep. The matins for that Sunday were sung with bursting hearts, for the strong clear voice that had always been foremost in the holy chant was silent for ever ….
During that night a vision came to a holy old man in one of the monasteries of Ireland. He saw the island of Iona all aflame with a glorious light and a multitude of angels descending from the skies. He heard them singing as they bore the blessed soul of Columbcille back with them into heaven, and the celestial melody filled his heart with joy.
At the same hour a boy named Ernene who was fishing by night in the River Finn in Donegal saw the whole sky suddenly break into light. In the east where Iona lay, there rose a great pillar of fire, so that for one moment the night was as bright as the noonday when the sun is shining. Then it vanished into the heavens and all was dark again.
It might have been expected that the little island would be crowded with men thronging from all directions to the funeral of Columbcille, but it was not so. While the Saint was yet alive one of the monks had said to him that Iona would be scarcely large enough to hold the numbers that would come to pay him the last honours.
"No, my son," replied Columba, "no one will be there but those of our own household;" and so it came to pass.
On the night of the Saint's death a violent storm arose, and continued until the burial was over; the sea was so wild that no boat could put out from the mainland or the surrounding islands. The simple rites were performed in the presence of the monks of Iona alone, to the sound of the wailing of the wind and the moaning of the sea. Was it the last revenge of the evil one, they asked themselves, on the Saint who had torn a nation from his grasp?
But Columbcille had passed
To where beyond these voices there is peace.