Chapter X (8)

We extract a portion of the elegy made by Mahon's blind bard on the melancholy occasion:

"Loud to-day the piercing wail of woe
Throughout the land of Ui Toirdhelbhaigh, (Torloch.)
It shall be and it is a wail not without cause,
For the loss of the hero Mathgamhain.

"Mathgamhain, the gem of Magh Fail,
Son of Cennedigh, son of Lorcan;
The western world was full of his fame--
The fiery King of Boromha.

.....

"The Dal Cais of the hundred churches remember
How we overran Gaeth Glenn,
When upon the illustrious Fergal's shield
Mathgamhain's meal was cooked.

.....

"Although calves are not suffered to go to the cows
In lamentation for the noble Mathgamhain,
There was inflicted much evil in his day
By those who are in Port Arda."

The custom of the Gael in matters militant was to appoint the time and place for battles--however enraged one party might be with the other. Brian sent mortal defiance to Molloy, threatening to besiege him in his own dun if he did not attend the notice. Murchad, Brian's eldest son, and the Osgur of his day, defied the caitiff chief to single combat. So the challenge was accepted and the battle took place, a large body of the Danes fighting under the banner of Maelmuadh. This chief was slain either by the hand of Murchad, or put to death in cold blood by Aedhan in a lonely hut after the fight. In this latter case he lost his eyesight in the field of Bealach Leachta through the curse pronounced on him, and was subsequently killed in the hut as mentioned.

A few lines of the poetical invitation to battle sent by Brian are worth quotation:

"Go, Cogaran the intelligent!
Unto Maelmuadh of the piercing blue eye,
To the sons of Bran of enduring prosperity,
And to the sons of the Ui Eachdach.

.....

"Say unto the son of Bran that he fail not
After a full fortnight from to-morrow,
To come to Belach Lechta hither,
With the full muster of his army and his followers.

.....

"Whenever the son of Bran son of Cian shall offer
The Cumhal (blood fine) of my brother unto myself,
I will not accept from him hostages or studs,
But only himself in atonement for his guilt.

.....

"But if he do not come from the South
To Belach Lechta the evergreen,
Let him answer at his house
The Dal Cais [Footnote 283] and the son of Cennedigh.

[Footnote 283: This name imports the "Tribe or Family of Cas."]

"For him shall not be accepted from them
Gold, nor silver, nor land,
Nor hostages, nor cattle, O man:
Tell them this, and go!"

The Fight At Dunlavin.

There now remained no obstacle to the placing of the crown of Leath Mogha, [Footnote 284] the southern portion of the island, on the head of the brother and avenger of Mahon. He took hostages from the chiefs of Desmond, (_Deas_, South, _Muimhe_, Munster,) allowed sundry Danish groups of people to occupy places of trade, and finally, in the year 998, came to a conference with Malachy II., King of Leath Cuinn or northern portion of Erinn. We have no objection to Brian's triumphant procession up the Shannon, but are not clear about the privilege assumed by his Dalcassians, of making hostile visitations to districts on each side as they went up-stream. However. Malachy had set them a bad example a short time before.

[Footnote 284: The boundary line of these portions connected the bays
of Dublin and Galway.]

{776}

The natives and Danes of Leinster getting up an insurrection soon after this treaty with Malachy, Brian proceeded toward Dublin to bring them to their duty. They met him at Glean-Mama (Glen of the Gap) near Dunlavin, but sustained signal defeats at that pass and other points where they afterward rallied. The curious in topographical details will find much to interest them at pages cxliv., etc., of the introduction. The editor has made himself well acquainted with the natural features of the neighborhood of Dunlavin, having received some valuable information from Rev. Mr. Sherman, formerly Roman Catholic curate in the neighborhood. The site of the old fort is marked by an ancient cemetery, pagan tumuli, and fragments of stone circles, called by the inhabitants, Pipers' Stones. We must here make use of one of Dr. Todd's many and valuable archaeological notes:

"The Danes expected to reach Dunlavin, and perhaps to encamp there to
meet the forces of Meath (under Malachy) and Munster. But Brian met them
in the narrow defile of Glen Mama, thus cutting off their retreat. Here
there was no room for a regular engagement, and the flight must have been
immediate. The main body of the Danish army flew across the sloping land
through Kinsellastown, to the ford of Lemmonstown, where a stand seems to
have been made by them, and where it is said thousands fell in the
conflict. To this day their bones are turned up in the fields about the
ford, and some mounds on the banks of the stream are so filled up with
them that the people leave them untilled, as being sacred repositories of
the dead. The remnant of the defeated army fled to Holywood, about a mile
to the east of the ford, and thence to the ford of the Horse-pass on the
Liffey, about Poul a Phouca, (the Pooka's Hole,) where they were utterly
routed. At the close of the last century the wild lands of Upper Crihelpe
were reclaimed, and many relics of this retreat were brought to light,
chiefly in a line from _Tubber Glen_ (Well of the Glen) to
Lemmonstown ford. The workmen, coming on the pits where the bodies of the
slain lay buried, left them intact, closing them up again. In the defile
of Glen Mama, during the first week of May, 1864, one of these pits was
accidentally opened, bones were turned up, and also the fragments of a
Danish sword, (now in the possession of Dean Graves, Pres. R. I. A.) The
clay was found black and unctuous, as if thoroughly saturated with human
remains."

In the now nearly unknown cemetery of Crihelpe lie the remains of Harold the Danish prince, by the side of a granite post, furnished with an aperture for a wooden shaft, to convert it into a cross. It is called _Cruisloe_, (_Crois laech_, warrior's cross,) and serves as a rubbing-post for cattle.

This was considered one of the most important victories gained over the foreigners, both from the number of the slain and the spoils recovered--"Gold, silver, bronze, (_finndruine_,) precious stones, carbuncle gems, buffalo horns, and beautiful goblets. Much also of various vestures of all colors was found there likewise;" for, in the words of the text,

"Never was there a fortress, or a fastness, or a mound, or a church, or a
sacred place, or a sanctuary, when it was taken by that howling, furious,
loathsome crew, which was not plundered.... Neither was there in
concealment under ground in Erinn, nor in the various solitudes belonging
to Fians [Footnote 285] or to fairies, anything that was not discovered
by these foreign, wonderful Denmarkians through paganism and idol
worship."

[Footnote 285: Here is evidence of the existence of legends of the
Fianna in the early part of the eleventh century.]

The tables were now completely turned on the foreigners. Instead of the state of vassalage in which they had held the natives, we now find the following state of things:

"There was not a winnowing sheet from Benn Edair (Howth) to Tech Duinn
[Footnote 286] in Western Erinn that had not a foreigner in bondage on
it, nor was there a quern (hand-mill) without a foreign woman, so that no
son of a soldier or of an officer of the Gaedhil deigned to put his hand
to a flail or to any labor on earth. Nor did a woman deign to put her
hands to the grinding of a quern, or to knead a cake, or to wash her
clothes, but had a foreign man or a foreign woman to work for them."

[Footnote 286: _House of Donn:_ the locality of the shipwreck of
Donn, son of Milesius, in the south-west of Kerry. Donn was venerated
as a fairy chief after his decease, the same as Aenghus of the Brugh,
Mananan, Mac Lir, etc.]

Unedifying Doings at Kincora.

After a sojourn from Great to Little Christmas (February 2d) in Dublin, Brian returned to Kincora, (_Ceann Coraidh_, head of the weir.) {777} Meantime Sitric, son of Anlaf, the defeated Danish prince, fled to the court of Aedh, at Aileach, (north east of Donegal,) and afterward to that of Achy, king of East Ulster, at Down-patrick, but neither king would afford him protection, such was the awe of Brian's power. So, like a brave and wise chief, he proceeded directly to the Court of his conqueror, and requested peace and friendship. These were immediately granted, both from the inherent nobility of Brian's disposition and his desire to have a friendly and devoted governor for the distant city of Ath Cliath.

To strain the bonds that held his new ally to him still tighter, he gave him his daughter in marriage. This might be prudent or the reverse, but to take Sitric's mother Gormflaith (blue-_eyed_ noble lady) for his second wife showed little wisdom. This lady, sister to Maelmordha, King of Leinster, had for her first husband Olaf Cuaran, to whom she bore the Prince Sitric. Her next spouse was Malachy, King of Leath Cuinn, already more than once mentioned. After presenting him with a son, Prince Connor, she was repudiated, and, very little to Brian's domestic comfort, he was selected for her third experiment in matrimony. After sharing his royal bed and board for a season, she was repudiated the second time, and then probably went to add to the discomfort of the fortress of her son in Dublin, or her brother at Naas, or Dunlavin, or Dinn Righ, (Ballyknockan, near Leighlin Bridge.)

"The Njal Saga calls her Kormlada, and describes her as the fairest of
all women, and best gifted in everything that was not in her own power,
that is, in all physical and natural endowments, but she did all things
ill over which she had any power, that is, in her moral
conduct."--_Burnt Njal_, ii. 323.

We find at the period in question frequent marriage alliances between Irish and Danish families. In fact, when a foreign family or tribe had contrived to secure a footing in the country, and the first bitter dislike had blown over, the native chiefs began to look on them as they did each other, and in many cases a stronger feeling of friendship connected the foreign chief and his people to some neighboring native prince or flaith than prevailed among themselves. This was also the case afterward between natives and Anglo-Normans. Nothing could exceed the strength of ties that bound the individuals of a tribe to each other and to their chief, and in most cases the chiefs to the provincial kings, but enthusiasm for the cause of the Ard-Righ or for the general weal of the island was an exceedingly scarce commodity. The same indifferent spirit still exists.

The great chiefs proceedings for some time after these occurrences seem to have been prompted as much by ambition at least as by a national spirit. Still he did not depart from the generally observed rule among Gaelic kings and chiefs, that is, sending warning to those on whom they intended to make war, and appointing the time and place of battle. He gave Malachy plainly to understand that he should cede to him the dignity of Ard-Righ. The astonished sovereign claimed time to consult the princes of the North and his own chiefs, but neither from the Kinel Conaill [Footnote 287] nor the Kinel Eoghain could he get due encouragement, and he was obliged to acknowledge the humiliating fact to the southern chief.

[Footnote 287: In the original is given the poetical adjuration of Gilla
Comghaill O'Sleibhin to Hugh, king of Hy Conaill, to join Malachy in his
opposition to Brian. This King of Munster is treated in it as the King
of Saxon-land in aftertimes by a bard of the fifteenth or sixteenth
century. For a wonder the Ulster king did not yield to the power of
poesy on that occasion.]

Still the latter was not disposed to take the brave prince at a disadvantage, and gave him a twelvemonth to mature his plans. The interview took place in Brian's camp, Malachy being accompanied by twelve score horsemen, and, when the agreement was made, the southern king proceeded homeward, first making a present of 240 horses to his future vassal. The Meath warriors would not deign to conduct each a led horse back to the royal fort, and Malachy was unwilling to offend Brian by refusing them. [Footnote 288]

[Footnote 288: Petty chiefs or princes paying tribute to their
superiors received in turn gifts from the great men, in fact, were
obliged to receive them--a genuine Irish procedure. (See the Book of
Rights.)]

{778}

He therefore begged of Murchad to accept them in token of his good-will, and the prince graciously assented. Malachy was not in a better condition at the year's end, and so the sovereignty of the island passed into Brian's hands without bloodshed. We have not space to treat in detail his after _visitations_ to the north, and his circuit of the kingdom to receive hostages and confirm his authority. When at Armagh, he gratified the ecclesiastical powers there by a donation of twenty ounces of gold, and by directing his secretary, the Abbot O' Carroll, to make this entry in their book in the Latin language. The curious may still read the original at page 16, BB, in the Book of Armagh, a collection begun in the eighth century:

"St. Patrick, going up to heaven, commanded that all the fruit of his
labor, as well of baptisms as of causes and of alms, should be carried to
the apostolic city which is called _Scotice_ (in Gaelic) ARDD MACHA.
So I have found it in the book collections of the Scots, (the Gael.) I
have written, (this,) that is, (I,) Calvus Perennis (_Mael-Suthain_,
Bald for Ever) in the sight (under the eyes) of Brian, emperor of the
Scots; and what I have written he has determined for all the kings of
Maceriae, (Cashel or Munster.)"

Compensations.

If there is extant a thorough believer in all the facts related by the bards, he had better refrain from questioning the editor on the subject of the beautiful and innocent maiden of the gold ring and snow-white wand. The chronicler coming to this point in the history thus expressed himself:

"After the banishment of the foreigners out of all Erinn, and after Erinn
was reduced to a state of peace, a lone woman came from Torach in the
North to Cliodhna [Footnote 289] (pr. Cleena) in the south of Erinn,
carrying a ring of gold on a horse-rod, and she was neither robbed nor
insulted. Whereupon the poet sang:

"From Torach to pleasant Cliodhna
And carrying with her a ring of gold,
In the time of Brian of the bright side, fearless,
A lone woman made the circuit of Erinn."

[Footnote 289: Cleena was in the first rank of Munster fairies. Her
visits were much disliked by the people. _Tonn Cliodhna_
(Cleena's Wave) in one of the Kerry bays was the dread of the native
seamen.]

It cannot be denied that Brian was a usurper with respect to Leath Cuinn; but how much better was it for the people of the whole land to be under the undivided sway of one wise, noble-minded, and energetic prince, assured of peace, and opportunities of carrying on the ordinary business of life undisturbed, and improving their condition, than to be merely enduring life from day to day, not knowing the moment they should be called on to go on a marauding expedition or to defend their corn, their cattle, and their own lives from a marauding party. We quote a few of the peaceful exploits of the best and greatest of our ancient princes:

"By him were erected noble churches in Erinn and their sanctuaries. He
sent professors and masters to teach wisdom and knowledge, and to buy
books beyond the sea and the great ocean, because the writings and books
in every church, etc., had been burned, and thrown into the water by the
plunderers from the beginning. And Brian himself gave the price of books
to every one separately who went on this service.... By him were erected
the church of Cell Dálua, (Killaloe,) and the church of Inis Cealtra,
(Scattery Island,) and the bell-tower of Tuam Greine, [Footnote 290] etc.
etc. By him were made bridges and causeways and high roads. By him were
strengthened the duns and fortresses and islands.... and royal forts of
Mumhain. He built also the fortification of Caisel of the kings,.... and
Cean Coradh, and Borumha in like manner. He continued in this way
prosperously, peaceful, giving banquets, hospitable, just-judging;
wealthily, venerated, chastely, and with devotion, and with law, and with
rules among the clergy; with prowess and with valor, with renown among
the laity, and fruitful, powerful, firm, secure for fifteen years in the
chief sovereignty of Erinn, as Gilla Maduda (O'Cassidy, Abbot of
Ardbreccan) said:

'Brian the flame over Banbha of the variegated flowers,
Without gloom, without guile, without treachery,
Fifteen years in full prosperity.'"

[Footnote 290: Fort of the Sun--Tomgreany in Clare--a copy of one of
the Danaan round towers. There is at present not a trace of it.]

{779}

The Gathering of the Eagles.

Toward the festival of St. Patrick in the ensuing spring, all that had remained loyal to the reigning monarch were directing their course to the plain before Dublin. Sitric, and his mother Gormflaith, and Maelmordha busied themselves collecting allies from all quarters. Sigurd, Earl of Orkney, came to the aid of his countrymen on the condition of getting the privilege of being Gormflaith's fourth husband, the second and third still living, and one being near eighty years of age. Brodar, about whose name and the locality of whose earldom there is some uncertainty, was also a postulant for her hand, and Sitric made no scruple of promising it, expecting, as may be supposed, that one of the wooers, after doing good service in the battle, might be very indifferent on the subject at its close:

"Brodar, according to the Njal Saga, had been a Christian man and a
mass-deacon by consecration, but he had thrown off his faith, and become
'God's dastard' and worshipped heathen fiends; and he was of all men most
skilled in sorcery. He had that coat of mail on which no steel would
bite. He was both tall and strong, and had such long locks that he tucked
them under his belt. His hair was black."

This fierce-looking renegade commanded the foreign Danes and auxiliaries in the front of the battle, being supported by Earl Sigurd and other chiefs. A battalion of the Dublin Danes had their position in the rear of these, supported by the chieftains of ships. Maelmordha and his chiefs occupied the rear, commanding the North-Leinster men and the forces of Hy Ceansalach, [Footnote 291] (Wicklow and Wexford.)

[Footnote 291: The first chief who bore this name had killed a druid,
accompanying the sacrilegious deed with a fiendish grin on his
features. "That vile expression on your face," said the dying man,
"shall give a name to your posterity while grass grows." _Ceann
salach_ is literally _dirty head_. Other great families have
not escaped nick-names. _Cameron_ is crooked nose;
_Cromwell_, crooked eye. (_Hy Kinsala_ is Kinsella's
country.)]

Directly opposed to Brodar's front battalions were the tried men of North-Munster, the Dalcassians under the command of the invincible Murchadh. The battalion behind this front array consisted of other Munster troops commanded by the Prince of the Waterford Decies. The nobles of Connacht, with their brave tribesmen, occupied the rear of the Irish war force.

The patriotic chronicler, having brought the combatants face to face on the field which was to be the crown of his work, felt all his poetic rage arise against the foreigners, whom he abuses as heartily as Goldsmith's bailiff did the French:

"These were the chiefs, and outlaws, and Dannars of all the west of
Europe, having no reverence, veneration, respect, or mercy, for God or
for man, for church or for sanctuary, at the head of cruel, villainous,
ferocious, plundering, hard-hearted, wonderful Danmarkians, selling and
hiring themselves for gold, and silver, and other treasures as well. And
there was not one villain or robber of that two thousand, (the troops of
Brodor and his brother Anlaf,) who had not polished, strong,
triple-plated, glittering armor of refined iron, or of cool uncorroding
brass, encasing their sides and bodies from head to foot."

In the description of the arms and armor of the combatants we suspect our authority of some inaccuracy. Avoiding the forest of epithets bristling all over the glowing description, we are told that the blue-green, hard-hearted pagans used crimsoned, murderous, poisoned arrows anointed and browned in the blood of dragons, and toads, and water-snakes, and otters, (the poor otter! he did not deserve this,) and scorpions. They had barbarous quivers, yellow-shining bows, green, sharp, rough, dark spears, polished, pliable, triple-plated corselets of refined iron and uncorroding brass. Their swords were heavy, hard-striking, strong, and powerful.

{780}

To the Gaelic warriors he allows glittering, _poisoned_, [Footnote 292] well-riveted spears, with beautiful handles of white hazel; darts furnished with silken strings, to be cast overhand; long, glossy, white shirts; comfortable (comfort in battle!) long vests; well-adjusted, many-colored tunics over these; variegated, brazen-embossed shields, with bronze chains; crested, golden helms, set with precious stones, on the heads of chiefs and princes; glaring, broad, well-set Lochlann axes, to hew plate and mail. Every sword had about thirty glorious qualities attached to it. [Footnote 293]

[Footnote 292: Venomous and poisonous in the bardic lays were mere
epithets applied to weapons from their aptitude to inflict mortal
wounds.]

[Footnote 293: It is somewhat strange that the chronicler has not
afforded even the _luirech_ (the leathern jack with its iron or
bronze scales) to his heroes. These loricas are frequently mentioned in
the old lays.]

The inferiority of the Irish warriors in defensive arms gave little concern to their historian. Armed or unarmed, they were a match for the world. (This under certain conditions is our own belief.)

"Woe to those who attacked them if they could have avoided attacking
them, for it was swimming against a stream, it was pummelling an oak with
fists, it was a hedge against the swelling of a spring tide, it was a
string upon sand or a sunbeam, it was the fist against a sunbeam to
attempt to give them battle or combat."

Day at Clontarf.

The battle began with a single combat, there being a previous challenge in the case. Plait, the foreign warrior, came before his lines and shouted, "Faras (_where is?_ an attempt at Danish) Donall?" "Here, thou reptile!" said the Irish champion. The battle was sharp and short, the two warriors falling on the sod at the same moment, their left hands clutching each other's hair, and their hearts transfixed by their swords.

Heaven and earth are ransacked for sublime images to give an idea of the dread struggle that took place between the iron-covered and the defenceless warriors on each side:

"To nothing small (we quote our text) could be likened the firm, stern,
sudden, thunder motion, and the stout, valiant, haughty, billow roll of
these people on both sides. I could compare it only to the boundless,
variegated wonderful firmament that has cast a heavy, sparkling shower of
flaming stars over the surface of the earth, or to the startling,
fire-darting roar of the clouds and the heavenly orbs, confounded and
crashed by all the winds in their contention against each other."

It was a terrible spectacle without doubt--the din and clang of sword and axe on shields and helms, the cries of the combatants, and the lurid flashes from the polished surfaces of the arms, and the effect of all intensified by dying groans, and the sight of bodies writhing in agony as life was about to quit them. It is not so easy to understand, taking distance into account, how the following circumstance could occur:

"It was attested by the foreigners and foreign women who were watching
from the battlements of Ath Cliath, that they used to see flashes of fire
from them in the air on all sides."

Malachy's forces remained inactive during the main part of the fight at least. Dr. Todd acquits him, however, of treachery to the national cause. We quote some passages of a description of the fight imputed to him:

"There was a field and a ditch between us and them, and the sharp wind of
the spring coming over them toward us. And it was not a longer time than
a cow could be milked that we continued there, when not one person of the
two hosts could recognize another.... We were covered, as well our heads
as our faces, and our clothes, with the drops of the gory blood, carried
by the force of the sharp, cold wind which passed over them to us.... Our
spears over our heads had become clogged and bound with long locks of
hair, which the wind forced upon us when cut away by well-aimed swords
and gleaming axes, so that it was half occupation to us to endeavor to
disentangle and cast them off."

Were we a powerful, well-armed warrior standing by the side of Maelseachlin (Malachy) on that day, we would certainly have endeavored to find a better occupation for his hands. Hear this bit of Pecksniffism uttered by him:

"It is one of the problems of Erinn whether the valor of those who
sustained that crushing assault was greater than ours who bore the sight
of it without running distracted before the winds, or fainting."

{781}

Conaing, Brian's nephew, and Maelmordha, fell that day by each other's swords. The Connacht forces and the Danes of Dublin assailed each other so furiously that only about a hundred of the Irish survived, while the Danes scarcely left a score. Murchadh's exploits, could we trust the chronicler and Malachy, could be rivalled only by those of Achilles of old. He went forward and backward through the enemies' ranks, mowing them down even as a person might level rows of upright weeds. He got his mortal wound at last from the knife of a Dane whom he had struck to the earth. He survived, however, till he had received the consolations of religion.

About sunset the foreigners, notwithstanding their superiority in armor, were utterly defeated. Striving to escape by their ships, they were prevented by the presence of the full tide, and those who flew toward the city were either intercepted by the same tide or by Maelseachluin's [Footnote 294] men. Dr. Todd inclines to this last theory. The heroic youth Torloch, son of Murchadh, pursuing the fugitive Danes into the sea, met his death at a weir.

[Footnote 294: This name implies the Tonsured, that is, devoted
disciple of Saint Sechnal, contemporary with St. Patrick, and patron of
Dunshaughlin.]

The aged monarch, while engaged at his prayers for the blessing of Heaven on the arms of his people, was murdered just at the moment of victory by the chief Brodar, who in a few minutes afterward was torn to pieces by the infuriated soldiers crowding to the spot.

The power of the foreigners was certainly crushed in this great and memorable combat, but disorder seized on the general weal of the island again. South-Munster renewed its contentions with North-Munster, and even its own chiefs with each other. Donnchad, Brian's remaining son, though a brave prince, had not the abilities of his father or elder brother. Malachy quietly resumed the sovereignty of the island, but found that the annoyances from turbulent petty kings and the still remaining foreigners were not at an end.

We join our regret to that of the editor that one of the unromantic books of Annals--that of Tiernach, or Loch Cé, or that of Ulster, has not inaugurated the publication of our ancient chronicles. Dr. Todd has done all that could be done by the most profound and enlightened scholar to disentangle the true from the false through the narrative by shrewd guesses, by sound judgment in weighing the merits and probabilities of conflicting accounts, by comparing the romantic statements with those set forth in the genuine annals and the foreign authorities, whether Icelandic or Anglo-Saxon. Many events in our old archives, pronounced by shallow and supercilious critics to have had no foundation, are found to possess the stamp of truth by the care taken by Dr. Todd and his fellow-archaeologists in comparing our own annals and those of the European nations with whom we had formerly either friendly or hostile relations.

Besides the anxious care bestowed on the comparison of the different MSS. and the translation, and the very useful commentary, the editor has furnished in the appendix the fragment (with translation) in the Book of Leinster, the Chronology and Genealogy of the Kings of Ireland and of Munster during the Danish period, Maelseachluin's account of the fight of Clontarf, in full from the Brussels MS., and the genealogy of the various Scandinavian chiefs who were mixed with our concerns for two centuries. The accounts given in detail of the fortunes of Sitric and others of these chiefs are highly interesting. The present volume will be more generally read than any of the mere chronicles, into whose composition entered more conscience and judgment--on account of the many poetic and romantic passages scattered through it. Let us hope that it is not the last on which the labors of the eminent scholar, its editor, will be employed, for we cannot conceive any literary task more ably and satisfactorily executed than the production of the Wars of the Gaedhil and the Gaill.

{782}

The Fatal Sisters, translated by Gray from the Norse, refer to the day at Clontarf. We quote three of the verses:

"Ere the ruddy sun be set
Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,
Blade with clattering buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

......

"Low the dauntless earl [Footnote 295] is laid,
Gored with many a gaping wound;
Fate demands a nobler head,
Soon a king [Footnote 296] shall bite the ground.

[Footnote 295: Earl Sigurd.]

[Footnote 296: Brian.]

"Long his loss shall Erinn weep,
Ne'er again his likeness see;
Long her strains in sorrow steep,
Strains of immortality!"

The appendix added by Dr. Todd to the work is exceedingly interesting and valuable, containing among other matters a carefully arranged genealogical list of the Irish princes and the foreign chiefs during the Danish wars, and an abstract of the fortunes of several of these kings. The accounts of the battle of Clontarf differed so much in form in the two MSS., that is, the Dublin and Brussels copies, that, instead of pointing out the various readings in notes to the body of the narrative, the editor has removed the account in the Brussels MSS., purported to have been given by Malachy, to the end of the book. Passages are worth preservation as literary curiosities. If Malachy felt any ill to Brian for wresting his independent sovereignty from him, there is not a trace of it discoverable in his narrative. Thus he speaks of the noble heir-apparent, Murchadh, who disdained to wear even a shield.

Malachy's Account of the Battle.

"The royal warrior had with him two swords, that is, a sword in each
hand, for he was the last man in Erinn who was equally expert in the use
of the right hand and of the left... He would not retreat one foot before
the race of all mankind for any reason in the world, except this reason
alone, that he could not help dying of his wounds. He was the last man in
Erinn who was a match for a hundred. He was the last man who killed a
hundred in one day in Erinn. His step was the last step which true valor
took. Seven like Murchadh were equal to Mac Samhain," etc.

Then the writer indulged in a heroic series in geometrical progression, each hero being worth seven such as the man who preceded him, and the greatest of all being Hector of Troy. All native bards, school-masters, and school boys, who have flourished since first the siege of Troy was heard of in Ireland, have fixed on Hector as the matchless model of heroism, chivalric faith, courtesy, and tenderness; most of them have borne a cordial hatred to the son of Peleus. Has the feeling originated from the pseudo-work of Dares the Phrygian priest having arrived in the country before Homer's "Tale of Troy Divine"? The theory in the text would make Hector many times superior to Hercules, the heroic terms in the sevenfold progression being Murchadh, Mac Samhain, Lugha Lagha, Conall Cearnach, Lugha Lamhfada, (_Long Hand_,) Hector! After the list comes this rather startling assertion: "These were the degrees of championship since the beginning of the world, and before Hector there was no illustrious championship."

"Murchadh was the Hector of Erinn in valor, in championship, in
generosity, in munificence. He was the pleasant, intelligent, affable,
accomplished Samson of the Hebrews in his own career and in his time. He
was the second powerful Hercules, who destroyed and exterminated the
serpents and monsters of Erinn.... He was the gate of battle and the
sheltering tree, the crushing sledge-hammer of the enemies of his
fatherland and of his race during his career.

"When this very valiant, very great, royal champion, and plundering,
brave, powerful hero saw the crushing and the repulse that the Danars and
pirates gave to the Dal Cais, it operated upon him like death or a
permanent blemish; and he was seized with boiling, terrible anger, and
his bird of valor and championship arose, and he made a brave, vigorous,
sudden rush at a battalion of the pirates, like a violent, impetuous,
furious ox that, is about being caught, or like a fierce, tearing, swift,
all-powerful lioness deprived of her cubs, or like the roll of a deluging
torrent, that shatters and smashes everything that resists it; and he
made a hero's breach and a soldier's field through the battalions of the
pirates. And the historians of the foreigners testified after him that
there fell fifty by his right, and fifty by his left hand in that onset.
Nor did he administer more than one blow to any of them; and neither
shield, nor corselet, nor helmet, resisted any of these blows, which
clave bodies and skulls alike. Thus three times he forced his way
backward through the battalions in that manner."

{783}

Sitric, the Danish prince, married as before mentioned to a daughter of Brian, is described as looking at the fight from his Dublin watch-tower, with his wife at his side. Seeing the mass of plumages and hair shorn off by the gleaming weapons, and flying over the heads in the wind, he exclaimed, "Well do the foreigners reap the field, for many is the sheaf whirled aloft over them." But in the evening he was obliged to endure the sight of his foreign friends and allies fleeing into the sea "like a herd of cows in heat from sultry weather, or from gnats, or from flies. And they were pursued quickly and lightly into the sea, where they were with great violence drowned, so that they lay in heaps and in hundreds and in battalions." Sitric's wife had not yet learned to feel strong sympathy with her husband's politics; and, if he had insisted on her presence in order to be a spectator of the defeat of her countrymen, he was sadly disappointed:

"Then it was that Brian's daughter, the wife of Amhlaibh's son, said: 'It
appears to me,' said she, 'that the foreigners have gained their
inheritance.' [Footnote 297] 'What is that, O girl?' said Amhlaibh's son.
'The foreigners are only going into the sea as is hereditary to them.' 'I
know not whether it is on them, but nevertheless they tarry not to be
milked.'

[Footnote 297: Sitric had used that expression at an early hour of the
fight, when he imagined the Danes were gaining on their enemy.]

"The son of Amhlaibh was angered with her, and he gave her a blow which
knocked a tooth out of her head."

Murcadh's death after a fatiguing day of fight has been already related. While the fierce struggle was going on, thus was the brave and devout old monarch employed:

"When the combatants met, his cushion was spread under him, and he opened
his psalter, and he began to recite his psalms and his prayers behind the
battle, and there was no one with him but Laideen, his own horseboy.
Brian said to his attendant, 'Watch thou the battle and the combatants
while I recite my psalms.' Brian then said fifty psalms, fifty prayers,
and fifty paters, and he asked the attendant how the battalions were
circumstanced. The attendant answered, 'I see them, and closely
confounded are they, and each of them has come within grasp of the other.
And not more loud to me would be the blows in Tomar's wood if seven
battalions were cutting it down, than are the resounding blows on the
heads, and bones, and skulls of them.' Brian asked how was the banner of
Murchadh. 'It stands,' said the attendant, 'and the banners of the Dal
Cais round it.'... His cushion was readjusted under Brian, and he said
fifty psalms, fifty prayers, and fifty paters, and he asked the attendant
how the battalions were. The attendant said, 'There lives not a man who
could distinguish one of them from the other, for the greater part of the
hosts on either side are fallen, and those that are alive are so
covered--their heads, and legs, and garments, and drops of crimson
blood--that the father could not recognize his own son there.' And again
he asked how was the banner of Murchadh. The attendant answered, 'It is
far from Murchadh, and has gone through the hosts westward, and it is
stooping and inclining. Brian said, 'Erinn declines on that account.
Nevertheless so long as the men of Erinn shall see that banner, its valor
and its courage shall be upon every man of them.' Brian's cushion was
readjusted, and he said fifty psalms, fifty prayers, and fifty paters,
and the fighting continued during all that time. Brian then cried out to
the attendant, how was the banner of Murchad, and how were the
battalions. The attendant answered, 'It appears to me like as if Tomar's
wood was being cut down, and set on fire, its underwood and its young
trees, and as if the seven battalions had been unceasingly destroying it
for a month, and its immense trees and its great oaks left standing.'"

Later Exploits of Sitric of the Silky Beard.

A year after the battle, Malachy assaulted Dublin, and burned all the buildings outside the fortress, within which Sitric lay secure. In 1018, Sitric blinded Bran or Braoin, his own first cousin, son of Maelmordha, thus incapacitating him to rule. The poor prince subsequently went abroad and died in a monastery at Cologne. This Bran was ancestor of the _Ua Brain_ or O'Byrn of Wicklow. {784} Next year he went on enlarging his bad ways by plundering Kells, slaying many people in the very church, and carrying away spoils and prisoners. In 1021, his Danes and himself got a signal defeat at Derne Mogorog, (Delgany,) by the son of Dunlaing, King of Leinster. In 1022, he was again defeated by King Malachy in a land battle, and at sea by Niall, son of Eochaidh, (_pr._ Achy or Uchy,) king of Hy Conaill. In 1027, he made an unsuccessful raid into Meath, and next year went on a pilgrimage to Rome. Two years later he attended the funeral of his mother Gormflaith. His pilgrimage had not quenched his thirst for forays, for in 1031 he plundered Ardbraccan, and carried off much cattle. Next year he was victorious at the mouth of the Boyne over the men of Meath, Louth, and Monaghan. In 1035, twenty-one years after the great fight, he abdicated in favor of his nephew Eachmarcach, (Rich in Horses,) and went abroad, (where is not said.) His death as well as that of his daughter Fineen, a nun, is recorded in 1042, the last seven years of life having probably been spent in religious retirement.

Irish historians and archaeologists will find valuable assistance in the appendix, whenever they are occupied with the genealogies of the Irish or foreign kings and chiefs who flourished during the two centuries preceding the day at Clontarf.

------

From The Month.

Rhoda.

A Devonshire Eclogue.

"I am declined
Into the vale of years; yet that's not much."_--Othello_.

It was the deep midsummer; the calm lake
Lay shining in the sun; the glittering ripples,
That scarce bare record of the wind's light wings,
Reached not the shore, where, shadowed by huge oaks,
The clear still water blended with the land
In undistinguished union. All was still,
Save where at little distance a bright spring
Leapt out from a fern-coroneted rock,
And ran with cheerful prattle its short course
(Making the silence deeper for its noise)
To quiet slumber in the quiet lake.

Down to the margin of the water, slow
Pacing along the shadow-dappled grass
Into the trees' green twilight, steadfastly
The while his eyes bent down upon the ground,
Sir Richard Conway came. No longer young;
A statesman of repute; in council wise;
Of bitter speech, but not unkindly heart;
Of stately presence still. He in his youth
Had wooed and wedded a fair girl; so fair,
So gentle, and so good that when she died
His heart and love died too, and in her grave
Lay down, and he came forth a stricken man.

{785}

But this was long ago: his children grew;
He watched them, but they never saw his heart;
They dreamed not of the proud man's tenderness,
But went into the highway of the world,
And left him to his utter loneliness.
Years passed: sometimes his solitary heart
Sent out a cry of agony for love;
But no one heard--he sternly stifled it:
Treading his path with dignity, he lived
In pride and honor, and he lived alone.

He prayed for love, and in his autumn days
Love came upon him; but in such a sort
As, if a man had told him it would come,
He would have laughed in scorn. But so it is;
God gives us our desire, and sends withal
Sharp chastening as his wisdom sees most fit.

Rhoda, the fairest of a sisterhood
Who were all fair, lived hard by the great house,
Near to the lake; the daughter of a pair
Not rich, yet blessed with slender competence.
And sometimes in the park, or in the house,
Whereto chance errands brought her, she would meet
Sir Richard, who to such as her showed ever
A gracious kindness, and would give to her
A friendly greeting, sometimes with a word
Of question of her needs or her desires,
Followed by such slight interchange of talk
As might befit such meetings--nothing more.
Indeed he could not fail, as time wore on,
To note that with each year she lovelier grew:
A pale and delicate fairy, exquisite
As some rare picture, with pathetic eyes
Veiled underneath long lashes; their shy glance
Seemed to reveal a soul whose tender depths
Were unprofaned by any earthly thought.
Nor was it seeming only: she was good;
And fenced her beauty with simplicity,
Meek sense, and modest wisdom.

{786}

This he saw--
He could not choose but see it; and he felt,
When she was near, as if some soothing strain
Breathed round him; and his secret soul was swayed
With unseen power, as sways the billowy corn
Swept by the warm caresses of the wind.
He knew what this portended. All in vain
The proud man struggled with his heart: he loved,
And knew that he loved, Rhoda; all in vain
He strove to turn away from her fair face;
He only gazed more tenderly: in vain
Strove to speak coldly when he met her; still
His deep voice trembled, as his heart beat fast,
And from his eyes looked out his yearning soul.
Of all this conflict Rhoda saw but little;
The less, belike, for conflict of her own:
Mysterious longings kindled by his voice;
Shy pleasure in his presence; constant thought
(Half reverence, half compassion, tender always)
Of this grave, courteous, noble, lonely man,
Who looked so great, so sorrowful, but still
With many a mute yet clearly speaking sign
Sued for her love with sad humility.
These things she never uttered to her heart;
And if her thoughts half spoke, unwaveringly
She put them by, and simply went her way.
But he could fight no longer; and to-day
He waited by the water, for he knew
Rhoda would pass that way, and he resolved
To tell her all his secret, and to learn
His future from her lips, whether they spoke
Hope or despair.

He had not waited long,
When through the park, along the trembling lake,
Into the oaks' soft shadows, Rhoda came;
So bright, so fresh, so beautiful, she seemed
To bring a golden light into the gloom.
Sir Richard trembled, and his breath came quick,
His pulse throbbed wildly, and his eyes grew dim;
Yet, mastered by his iron will, his words
Came calmly forth to greet her: at the sound,
Surprised to find him here, she started back,
Then murmuring something hurriedly, went on.
He gently staid her, saying in tenderest tones:
"One moment, Rhoda--one--could you but know--"
She looked into his face with wondering eyes,
Then bashfully withdrew them; for she knew
At once his secret from his pleading voice
And his dark eyes' ineffable tenderness.
"I did not mean to startle you," he said;
"Nay, do not tremble; could you see my soul,
The tempest there would make your own show calm.
Oh! stay--forgive me when the heart beats fast.
The tongue is slow--I love you! Fewest words
Are best for such confession. Can you love?"

{787}

But Rhoda could not answer. Naught was heard
Except the gurgling of the silver spring,
When thus in saddest accents he resumed:
"Rhoda, you see in me a man sore smitten,
Whose youth and spring were buried long ago--
One who has had no summer in his heart,
Whose autumn days are lonely, and who prayed
(Till you relumed the sunshine of his life)
For the swift-closing winter of the grave.
Long have I kept my secret to myself--
From no mean shame, my girl; for well I know,
Were you my wife, mine were the gain, not yours;
But silver hairs blend ill with waving gold,
Nor would I bring a blight upon your life.
Why have I spoken? 'Twas a selfish thought
To share with you the burden of my gloom,
O'ershadowing your young years--an idle dream
That one so old and desolate as I
Could stir the heart of blessed youthfulness.
There--you have heard my secret. Pity me:
I know you will not mock me. So, farewell!
Go, Rhoda, with my blessing on your head!
I to my loveless life return alone,
Forlorn, but uncomplaining."

He turned to go,
But Rhoda, who had heard him to this word,
Could now endure no more; she caught his arm,
She gazed at him with fond eyes full of tears.
"Oh! not alone!" she said "we go together;
If a poor girl like me--" She said no more,
But turned and hid her face upon his heart.
He clasped her, looking thankfully to heaven,
Then stooped and kissed her: "Rhoda, my own wife,
Bear with me for my love!" The trees stood still,
Yielding no faintest whispering. They came forth
Out of the solemn grove into the sun;
The soft blue sky had not one film of cloud;
And as they walked in silence, they could hear
Far off the happy stockdove's brooding note.

And so Sir Richard won his lovely wife.
Once more the old house brightened; stately rooms
Rang with the unaccustomed sound of mirth:
And still as years went on, Sir Richard wore
Always an air of serious cheerfulness;
While baby voices gladdened all the place,
And Rhoda's lovely face was never sad.
Let the grim rock give forth a living stream,
And still boon nature crowns its ruggedness
With flowers and fairy grasses.

{788}

Near the park
Towers up a tract of granite; the huge hills
Bear on their broad flanks right into the mists
Vast sweeps of purple heath and yellow furze.
It is the home of rivers, and the haunt
Of great cloud-armies, borne on ocean blasts
Far-stretching squadrons, with colossal stride
Marching from peak to peak, or lying down
Upon the granite beds that crown the heights.
Yet for the dwellers near them these bleak moors
Have some strange fascination; and I own
That, like a strong man's sweetness, to myself
Pent in the smoky city, worn with toil,
When the sun rends the veil, or flames unveiled
Over those wide waste uplands, or when mists
Fill the great vales like lakes, then break and roll
Slow lingering up the hills as living things,
Then do they stir and lift the soul; and then
Their colors, and their rainbows, and their clouds,
And their fierce winds, and desolate liberty,
Seem endless beauty and untold delight.

So was it with Sir Richard: from the park
And from the cares of state he often went
With Rhoda, to enjoy some happy hours
There face to face with nature--far away
From all the din and fume of human life,
From paltry cares and interests, that corrupt
Or keep the soul in chains. They may be seen
On a great hill, on cloudless summer days,
Or when the sun in autumn melts the clouds,
Gazing on that magnificent region, spread
In majesty below them: teeming plains
And wood-clothed gorges of the hills in front;
Behind them sea-like ridges of bare moor,
Some in brown shade, some white with blazing light;
Above, enormous rocks piled up in play
By giants; all around, authentic relics
Of those drear ages, when half-naked men
Roamed these dim regions, waging doubtful war
With wolves and bears; and on the horizon's verge
The pale blue waste of ocean. There they sit,
Sir Richard and his Rhoda, side by side
Their hearts aglow with love, their souls bowed down
In thankful adoration, scarce recalled
From musings deep and tender, by the shouts
Of two fair children playing at their feet.

October, 1866.

------

{789}

Original.

Protestant Attacks Upon The Bible. [Footnote 298]

[Footnote 298: Liber Librorum: Its Structure, Limitations, and Purpose.
A Friendly Communication to a Reluctant Sceptic. New-York: C. Scribner
& Co. 1867.]

The work, the title of which we subjoin, though pretending on the surface to be an appeal, in favor of the Bible, is, in truth, one of the most serious attacks made upon it that has come under our notice; and would be, for a Protestant, one of the most dangerous books he could read. With a Catholic its arguments would have no force whatever, being based upon the unphilosophical principle of private judgment on revealed truth. We should say that, take it as a whole, it is a very clever attempt to found a purely subjective religion, which might call itself Christianity with equal consistency as do many so-called Christian denominations of our day, and which would consequently ignore all dogmatic authority and make use of the Holy Scriptures only as a means of edification.

We cannot see how a Protestant can escape the conclusions drawn by the author, unless he abandons his Protestantism for Catholic authority or for the most irresponsible individuality; and, if the author has really been sincere in his professed desire to reassure the troubled mind of his reluctant sceptic, and inspire him with respect for the Bible as the revealed word of God, we cannot but think he counts upon his sceptic's possessing very limited reasoning powers. His entire argument throughout is based upon postulates which we are sure no sceptic and certainly no Catholic is prepared to grant. For it is assumed both that we are, or ought to be, Christians as a matter of course, independent of authoritative teaching, and that the inspiration of the Bible is to be taken for granted without extrinsic proof. Moreover, that each individual is possessed of a verifying faculty which enables him to appropriate of its contents just so much and in so far as God wishes it to be true to him.