Donahoe's Magazine, Volume 15, No. 4, April, 1886

Various

Donahoe's Magazine, Volume 15, No. 4, April, 1886

The Welcome of the Divine Guest

In a rare old Irish story,I have read with a tear and smile,Of a scene in a little chapelIn Erin's far-off isle;A little rustic chapelIn a wild yet fair retreat,Where the hardy sons of the mountainsOn hallowed mornings meet.The priest at the lighted altarIs reading the blessèd Mass;And the place is thronged from the chancel,Clear out to the churchyard-grass;All kneeling, hush'd and expectant,Biding their chosen time,'Till the bell of the ConsecrationRings forth its solemn chime;When lo! as the Host is lifted,The Chalice raised on high,Subdued yet clear, the peopleSend forth one rapturous cry:"Welcome! A thousand welcomes!"(While many a tear-drop starts:)"Welcome! Cead mille failthe!White Love of all our hearts!"Oh, the passionate warmth of that whisper!Oh, the grace of that greeting strong!On the tide of its glowing fervor,All hearts are borne along!And the blaze of the Son of JusticeLights up that dim old spot,And kindles in every spiritA flame that dieth not!Ah! friends in our stately churches,When we gaze on the gorgeous shrineWhere the Sacred Host reposes,Like a great white Pearl divine, —Let the voice of our faith find utt'ranceIn a greeting free from guile;Let us cry with our Irish brothersIn Erin's far-off isle:"Welcome! a thousand welcomes!"(What bliss that prayer imparts!)"Welcome! Cead mille failthe!White Love of all our hearts!"Eleanor C. Donnelly.

John Scotus Erigena

During the ninth century there lived few more remarkable men in Western Europe than John Scotus Erigena, the celebrated Irish theologian, philosopher and poet. Little beyond mere conjecture is known of his birth and early education. Indeed, the first well-authenticated facts in connection with his life is that in the year 851 he held the offices of rector and professor of dialectics in the famous Royal School of Paris, and that he occupied at the same time apartments in the palace of Charles the Bald, son of Louis le Débonnaire, and grandson of the Emperor Charlemagne. It may, however, be interesting to see what historical critics have to say of his birth and early antecedents.

Almost all writers of weight are agreed that John Scotus Erigena was an Irishman. In fact, there is hardly any room for doubt on the subject. If all other evidences of the fact were absent his very name furnishes proof enough that John was a son of the Emerald Isle. John Scotus Erigena simply means John the Irish Scot – Erigena being a corruption of a Greek word, the translation of which is "of the sacred isle," and every school boy knows that Ireland was known at that time throughout the nations of the earth as the "insula sanctorum et doctorum," the "island of saints and sages."

It was in 851 that he published his famous work on "Predestination." Long before that time, however, his name was well known in France, so that it may be safely assumed that he came to that country about the year 845. At this calculation we may place his birth somewhere about the year 820.

Prudentius, his colleague in the Scolia Palitina, or Royal School of Paris, says that he was the cleverest of all those whom Ireland sent to France. Te solum omnium acutissimum galliæ transmisit Hibernia. When we consider that Prudentius was so intimately connected with him as to style himself his "quasi frater," any doubts that might remain as to Erigena's nationality should entirely vanish.

But, it may be asked, why did this great man leave Ireland to seek shelter and patronage from a foreign king? Had he not at home a field wide and fertile enough for even his towering intellect in the numerous monasteries and schools which were at this time the pride and glory of Erin? The cause of his departure from his home and friends was probably the inroads of the Danes, who, in the year 843, under their brutal leader Turgesius, "plundered Connaught, Meath and Clonmacnoise with its oratories," and thus rendered a residence in the country anything but desirable for the holy monk and erudite scholar.

We have seen that John published his work "De Prædestinatione" about the year 851. In combating the errors of Gottschalk, he unfortunately broached new errors of his own, and thus incurred the displeasure of the Holy See.

The most precious volume in the Royal Library at Paris was a Greek copy of the works of "Pseudo Dionysius the Areopagite." Many unsuccessful attempts had been made to translate this work, and when Charles the Bald found that the erudite rector of the Royal School could translate Greek, he ordered him to furnish a translation which he did. It was published in 861, and a copy sent to Pope Nicholas I. The Sovereign Pontiff, who was not inclined to look with great favor on the author of "De Prædestinatione," did not approve of the translation, and as a consequence of some farther negotiations between Charles and the Holy See, Scotus was, in 861, dismissed from his position in the Scolia Palitina. He did not, however, just then cease to be connected with the Royal Palace. His principal works are – "De Divisione Naturæ," "Liber de Divine Prædestinatione," Translation of the Ethics of Aristotle and of the writings of "Pseudo Dionysius the Areopagite," and a "Commentary on the Gospel of St. John." That John Scotus Erigena erred and erred gravely, no one can for a moment deny; but we should remember with the learned and distinguished Coadjutor Bishop of Clonfert (the Most Rev. Dr. Healy), "That he erred not in the spirit of Luther and Calvin, but of Origen and St. Cyprian."

How long he remained in Paris after his dismissal from the Royal School cannot be determined, nor do we know how he ended his days. Some assert that "he was murdered by a band of infuriated students at Oxford or Malmesbury," but this is by no means certain.

Ollave Fola

Jan. 18th, 1885.

Frau Hütt: A Legend of Tyrol

The Austro-Bavarian Alps are perhaps unsurpassed in number and average height by any group of mountains in the world. There is always more or less snow on their summits, and as they are continually attracting the clouds and causing a changeable, capricious climate in their neighborhood, they may be said, like fashionable ladies, to have a different dress for every day in the week, and to look beautiful in whichever dress they choose to wear. They are beautiful when they stand out clear and sublime in the perfect sunlight of a cloudless day. They are beautiful in the night when the moonlight grows even more silvery from its contact with the snow upon their tops, or when there is no moon and the stars are rivalled by the bonfires which merry climbers have kindled upon their well-wooded sides. They were beautiful in the only thunder-storm I have seen during my residence among them, – their tops hidden by the clouds and the lightning flashing furiously down their sides, as if the thunderer of Olympus himself were hurling his bolts into the valley, while "a million, horrible, bellowing echoes" bounded and rebounded from mountain to mountain. And they were very beautiful on the day when I first heard this little legend which I am about to put into writing. It was raining in the valley, but yet it was possible to see more or less of all the mountains, and the summit of one of them was perfectly visible above the clouds that covered its sides. This was Frau Hütt, a peak whose shape bears a remarkable resemblance to that of a monstrous woman on horseback; and this is its legend as it was told to me by a very obliging kellnerin in the cosey little inn where I was sitting:

"Frau Hütt was a beautiful young maiden who lived in this very valley a great many hundreds of years ago, and one morning she determined to have her favorite palfrey saddled and take a canter up the mountain-side. It was a lovely morning and she was soon glowing with exercise and pleasure. She had passed over the lower part of the mountain, and was enjoying the merry, upward rush through the cool, fresh air, when she suddenly perceived a beggar standing in the road before her, with head uncovered and hands outstretched for alms. Now, Frau Hütt was a selfish, cold-hearted woman, and instead of checking her steed or turning him aside, she rode straight upon the helpless beggar, and in a very few seconds he was being trampled beneath her horse's feet and was spending his dying breath, not in praying for his soul, but in cursing hers.

"His curse took immediate effect. Frau Hütt was at once struck by remorse. The glow of exercise fled from her cheeks, and she began to feel chilly and faint, and to think of returning home; but she shuddered at the thought of repassing the beggar's mangled corpse. And when at last she attempted to check her steed and head him for the valley, she found with horror that the brute had acquired a will of his own and would no longer obey the bit; and when she tried to hurl herself from the saddle, it was only to discover that she was firmly fastened to her seat and could not move from it. So horse and rider rushed upward higher and higher, upward through the frosty mountain air and over the frozen mountain snow, and all the time Frau Hütt grew colder and colder, and felt the very blood in her veins ceasing to circulate, and her muscles becoming so stiffened that she could not even shiver. And when they had reached the summit of the mountain where people in the valley might best see her and be best warned by her fate, the palfrey rested, and Frau Hütt's whole body became what her heart always was, – stone.

"And even unto this day, once every year at a certain midnight, when the air is silent except for here and there the crowing of a cock, and the continuous gurgle of our rivers rushing to the sea, a mist arises from the muddy waters of the river Inn and thickens into a cloud and floats northward; and when it approaches Frau Hütt, it slowly takes the form of a beggar with head uncovered and hands outstretched as if for alms; and then the upper part of the mountain trembles visibly, just for all the world like a mortal shuddering in the presence of some ghastly horror.

"And have I seen this myself?" repeated our kind informant. "No, indeed; and I suppose if I were to ask the same question of the person who told me the story, he would reply, after the fashion of all ghost-story tellers, that his mother's first husband knew a gentleman whose aunt's next-door neighbor was reported to have seen it often. At any rate, one cannot easily watch for the spectre, because nobody knows the date of its annual appearance. 'And how in the world could a woman and her horse ever become so monstrously large as to form the peak of that great, big mountain?' Oh, that is easily answered. They did not become so. They always were so, for it all happened in the days of the giants."

Caspar Pischl.

Charles O'Conor. – "He went to Ireland and visited the seat of his ancestors at Belanagre, in Connaught, the result of which was that upon his return he changed the orthography of his name. Before that time he and his father had spelled Conor with two n's, but he then dropped one of the n's upon discovering that the family name was anciently spelled in that way. I was once asked if I knew why he had changed the spelling of his name from two n's to one, and I answered that he was descended from the Irish kings, and found, when he visited Ireland, that they spelled the name in that way, which information Mr. Nathaniel Jarvis, the witty Clerk of the Court of Common Pleas, who was present, supplemented with the remark that he supposed that the Irish kings had always been so poor that they had never been able to make both n's meet."

Echoes from the Pines

" – , This, nor gems, nor stores of gold,Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow,But God alone, when first His active HandImprints the secret bias of the soul."

The palm, the laurel, and all the fountains of Pindus, Helicon and Parnassus, were sacred to the muses. The deep and dark pine woods of Maine, if not sacred to the muse of the author of "Echoes from the Pines," seem at times to have been a source of inspiration to her. We say "at times," and in a relative sense only, for assuredly, Margaret E. Jordan, the gifted author of the beautiful volume of poems, with the above title, sought her sources of inspiration at a higher fount than this, or any named in the pages of ancient mythology. Of her, indeed, it may be truly said, —

"His active handImprints the secret bias of the soul."

These poems, about fifty in number, are scattered throughout the work like wild flowers o'er mead and hill, in copse and glen. They are, to some extent, artless in composition, free and flowing in style, garnished with pure and holy thoughts, and most of them, while stamped with the royal sign of deep religious thought, – truest source of all poetic inspiration, – are free of the namby-pambyism common to what are sometimes called "religious" poems.

Nearly all these poems are written in words of one syllable; that, at least, is a chief characteristic of them. This simple beauty of composition is oftener felt than observed. Thus, in our immortal lyrics, the Irish Melodies, Moore deals largely in this style.

Take a glance at the following: —

"The harp that once through Tara's hallThe soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara's wall,As if that soul were fled;So sleeps the pride of former days,So glory's thrill is o'er,And hearts that once beat high for praise,Now feel that pulse no more."

This beautiful simplicity is too often overlooked by the lovers of the Irish Bard, yet it indicates great strength of mind and a powerful pinion not only in poetry but in prose. (Vide, Cardinal Newman's Apologia).

The patriotic poems in Miss Jordan's collection are full of fervent pathos and fine feeling.

Take this stanza for example: —

"'Twas no disgrace to be IrishIn the far-famed days of old,When the tale of our redemptionIn Tara's halls was told.When the holy feet of Saint PatrickBlessed the land whose soil they trod,And a pathway traced, yet never effaced,From Ireland to God."'Tis no disgrace to be Irish,Or to bear the faith to-dayThat Ireland's sons have cherishedThro' many a weary way.What! a disgrace to be Irish!A pride and a joy let it be!More than fortune or fame, prize the faith and the name,Of the Saint-hallowed isle of the sea."

In the spirited poem, "Leave their Fair Fatherland," in which the cruel process of emigration as a panacea for the sufferings of Ireland is described by the author, the opening stanza gives the tone of the whole poem: —

"Leave the fair land of their fathers,The graves of their grandsires – for what?Have ye not hearts in your bosoms,Or think ye the Irish have not?When sounded our trumpet of battle,Were they cravens? Nay, bravest of men!And they fought till the 'stars' rose in triumphNever to vanish again!"

Our poet is not above giving "A Bit of Advice," and the way she gives it is this: —

"Whene'er you find a chance to wedA noble girl, don't slight it;And if you cannot speak your mind,Why, just sit down and write it."

But the fellow who couldn't "pop the question" to "a noble girl," would not deserve to get her, and we think the noble girl would say the same.

The above selections are by no means the best we could have given. They are selected at random, and chiefly because they admit of selection without injuring the sense of their meaning. In other instances it would have been necessary to quote the poems entire, and this, of course, was neither desirable nor practicable in the small space at command.

The author of these poems is not unknown in Boston and throughout the New England States. It would be an encouragement to her to find that her efforts were not without promise of reward, and confident we are that those who spend a dollar in purchasing this handsome volume will not regret it. We have all a duty to discharge in the encouragement of Catholic writers and here is an excellent chance.

The work is beautifully brought out by the spirited publishers, McGowan & Young, of Portland, Me. It is printed on the finest paper, well and handsomely bound, gold lettered and red edges. It has a dedication so brief and beautiful that we give it entire. It is a little poem in itself. Here it is: —

"To My Beloved Father and Mother."

Were it possible to reveal even a little of what this abdication means, and what it conceals, the effort of Margaret E. Jordan would reap a rich return for literary labors performed under trying circumstances. Our beautiful singer could not well refrain from writing about "Gethsemane." Her devotion and her love to our Suffering Lord must needs find its vent among the trees of Mount Olivet!

Procure a copy of "Echoes from the Pines," and the sweet music and balsamic odor will be deliciously refreshing and grateful to every sense.

P. McC.

Musings from Foreign Poets

THE PEARL AND THE SONGFrom the German of EbertThe million-tinted pearl of oceanLies shrined within its mortal shell,And sails the deep in wavy motion,Responsive to each tidal swell.These songs of mine that shell resembleFreighted with tears, in ebb and flow,Like to the shell they float and trembleOn the wild ocean of my woe.THE MODERN MUSEFrom the Italian of LeopardiWhile still a youth and all aflameWith fire poetic, I becameA pupil of the Muses nine;One took my hand in kindly mood,And led me to the inner shrine —The secret workshop, where apart,In silence and in solitude,They wrought the marvels of their art.The Muse then showed me, one by one,And in minute detail outlinedThe various tasks to each assigned;I listened, marvelling much the while;"Pray, Muse," I asked, "where is the file?"She answered lightly as in scorn,"The file is rusted and outworn,'Tis used no more in prose or rhyme.""But why not mend it if 'tis broken?"Lightly again the words were spoken,"The fact is, friend, we have no time!"PRAYER OF THE POORFrom the French of LamartineO Thou who dost thine ear inclineUnto the lowly sparrow's nest,And hear'st the sighs of flowers that pineFor dews upon the mountain's crest!Divine Consoler of our woes!Thou dost the hidden hand perceiveThat on the poor a coin bestowsTo buy the bread by which they live.Thou givest, as Thou deemest bestTo mortals, wealth or poverty,That, springing from their union blest,Justice might live and charity.To know the hearts, be this Thy care,Who thus their kindly gifts dispense,That in the treasures they may shareOf Thy all-bounteous providence.We know not those for whom we pray,They are beheld of Thee alone;Their right hand's gifts from day to day,Are ever to their left unknown.

The plan to unite Paris and London with pneumatic tubes has been reported on favorably by French engineers, and submitted to the Government. It is proposed that two pneumatic tubes be laid, following the line of the Northern Railroad from Paris to Calais, thence across the channel to Dover, and following the line of the South-Eastern Railroad to London. Letters could thus be transmitted between the two capitals in one hour. Wagonets like those now used to transport telegrams from Paris are used, weighing ten kilograms and capable of carrying five kilograms weight of mail matter. Twenty pneumatic trains are to be started every hour.

Erin on Columbia's Shore

BRIGHT INCIDENTS OF CORRELATIVE IRISH HISTORY

That history repeats itself in many and sometimes mysterious ways, is rather interestingly illustrated in a talk with Mr. Denis McGillicuddy, of Medford. This gentleman emigrated from Ireland to America about forty years ago, and in the meantime has been a prominent builder and contractor. His works include the construction of nineteen Catholic Churches, among them in 1870-1, St. Augustine's Church of South Boston, and also the mansion of Archbishop Williams and his priests near the Cathedral in this city. His story links two countries together in its detail, though centuries and three thousand miles of ocean divide them, and the incidents he related yesterday to the writer, as follows:

"When I read the account of the truly Christian celebration of Christmas in St. Augustine's Church, South Boston, it brought to my mind an incident in connection with the building of that beautiful and elaborately finished edifice and its worthy pastor, Rev. Father O'Callaghan, which I should think might very well interest the general reader; but it certainly ought to be interesting to those who familiarize themselves with comparisons in history. Among the artisans employed on St. Augustine's, when in process of erection, were four men bearing the historic names of O'Keefe, O'Sullivan, O'Falvey and O'Connell. Now, sir, in the Annals of Ireland, by the Four Masters, we find that Ceallachan (Callaghan), a celebrated warrior of the Erigenian race, was King of Cashel in the tenth century, and having defeated the Danes in several battles, Sitric, who was then chief of the Danes, in Dublin, made proposals of peace to the King of Munster. Ceallachan went to Dublin on that mission accompanied only by his body-guard, and one or two friends. On his arrival there, his party was treacherously attacked, and Ceallachan was taken prisoner, – the entire proceedings, on the part of the barbarians being a conspiracy to get Ceallachan, their formidable opponent, into their power. The Munster (South of Ireland) chiefs, in order to release their king from captivity, collected a powerful force, numbering over twelve thousand troops commanded by Denis O'Keefe, Prince of Fermoy, and O'Sullivan, Prince of Beara. They also organized a large naval force, consisting of one hundred and twenty ships commanded by an O'Falvey and an O'Connell.

"The army marched northwest through Connaught, and thence through Ulster to Armagh, which city was then in possession of the Danes, and whither the latter had brought Ceallachan to transport him captive to Denmark. The Irish attacked Armagh, applied scaling ladders to the walls, and the Danes under Sitric and his brothers, Tor and Magnus, were defeated with great slaughter. The Danes fled in the night to the protection of their ships at Dundalk, and carrying Ceallachan, they embarked on board their vessels in that bay. Warrior O'Keefe followed, and from its shores sent a flag of truce demanding of Sitric that he deliver to him the person of King Ceallachan. But Sitric refused the demand unless an eric, a sum of money, was first paid for every Dane who fell in the fifteen different battles with King Ceallachan and his forces. Sitric then ordered Ceallachan to be tied to one of the masts of his ship, and he was thus exposed in full view of the whole Munster army. The Irish were terribly enraged at this outrage on their chief, but had not then any means of attacking the enemy. Shortly after, however, O'Falvey, the Irish admiral, hove in sight and drew up his ships in line for attack on the Danish fleet. A desperate engagement ensued; the Irish commanders gave orders to grapple with the enemy's vessels. O'Falvey succeeded in releasing Ceallachan, and, giving him a sword, asked him to assume command. The Irish, at seeing their king at liberty, fought with renewed valor; but the valiant O'Falvey fell pierced with many wounds. O'Connell, who was second in command, seized Sitric, the Danish chieftain, in sudden grasp and plunged overboard with him. Both were drowned. It is also related that Fingal, and many other Irish chiefs, grasped other Danish chiefs in similar fashion in their arms, and leaped with them in like manner into the sea. At length, the Danish forces were defeated, and their fleet totally destroyed. Almost all the Irish chiefs and a great many of the men engaged in that hard contest were slain. The consternation of General O'Keefe and his army, being unable to render any assistance to their countrymen on the water, may be imagined. After the naval combat Ceallachan landed in Dundalk, where he was most joyfully received by the people, and soon after resumed in peaceful sway, the government of the Munster province."

"This great sea fight took place," said the narrator, "in the Bay of Dundalk, in the year 944. The account is given in an ancient Irish MS. with the title of 'Toruigheachd Cheallachain chaisil,' – signifying the pursuit for the rescue of Ceallachan Cashel."

"Well what are your deductions, Mr. Mc.," queried the writer.

"The coincidence to my mind is this," said Mr. McGillicuddy, as his face brightened; "and it is a singular one I think, that here in this glorious and enlightened Republic, one thousand years later, the kinsman of this Munster prince, Rev. Denis O'Callaghan, when erecting his church, now all paid for, had in his employ the kinsmen of the four chiefs highest in command on that memorable occasion – viz: O'Keefe, O'Sullivan, O'Falvey and O'Connell, all professing the identical Christian creed their forefathers professed and practised. There are no barbarians here now, thank God, to hinder Christians from kneeling at their own shrine, and all as they chose, no matter how else they may differ on material and worldly questions. Here the kinsmen of these brave soldiers of the tenth century build temples to the Lord of Hosts, and are not called upon to defend them with their life's blood from the fire and sword of barbaric legions. Thus let us pray that with pure Christian foundations, the beloved union of States, – the Republic – may be in the quotation of Henry Grattan, 'esto perpetua.'