Читать книгу A Garden of Girls; Or, Famous Schoolgirls of Former Days - Thomas Mrs. Concannon - Страница 8

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So in the folds of Brigid’s white mantle, the little orphan maiden, Darlugdacha, found shelter; and the first home she knew was the white-washed hut of wattles and clay in the shadow of the great oak tree of the Plain of Kildare.

Very warm was the nest they made for her—the holy maidens, who were Brigid’s companions. Dear gentle Daria, the blind nun, wove a cradle of osiers, and Blathnata filled a deer-skin with downy feathers to lay in it. Kinnia spun fine linen for it; and Brigid, herself, took the wool of the whitest lamb in her flock, and spun and wove it into warm, soft coverlets. When the sisters were gathered with spindle, and distaff, and needle on the lawn, the little cradle stood in the midst of them, protected from the damp grass by the wolf-skin, which had been Flann’s last offering. But it was so contrived that it could be hung, also, from a branch of the tree. So, as the little green leaves began to peep out on the oak tree, they found among their green company something that they might well have taken for a beautiful, rosy blossom. And it was the little child in her cradle.

At night the cradle was hung from the feici[4] in Brigid’s cell, a dim lamp swaying from the opposite end. And when the dawn came, and Brigid set wide the door to let it in, there was always standing by the threshold her own snow-white pet doe, waiting to give her milk to feed her tiny nursling.

The months passed quickly, and at last the little maiden had climbed out of the cradle, and was learning to take her first faltering steps. Blind Daria, with her deft hands, had fashioned the quaintest garments for her. They were of undyed lambs’-wool, and made in the same fashion that the holy maidens, themselves, had chosen. There was a white mantle, too; and on the curly, baby head, was set a snow-white veil.

But not in dress alone was Darlugdacha a little nun. Very early, like all healthy little girls, she insisted on taking an active part in the life she saw around her. There was one beautiful night when Brigid and her companions were gathered in the Church for the Second Nocturn. The lamps were swaying from the ridge-pole, and in the dim light of them the nuns were singing from psalters of their own copying the appointed psalms. All but blind Daria, who needed no psalter and no lamp-light.

All at once the blind nun’s quick ear caught a sound at the barred door. Very softly she stole from her place and set it open. There was Darlugdacha, with her white tunic all stained with mud, her rosy face all stained with tears, and her baby hands all hurt with beating at the door. Sightless Daria could see these things, as she stooped and gathered the forlorn little figure into her arms. Presently, she was back in her place again, with Darlugdacha’s head on her shoulder, and Darlugdacha singing her own version of the psalms after her, in the sweetest baby voice. But, long before the Office was ended, Darlugdacha was sound asleep.

After that night, Daria would always slip into the Abbess’ hut before she took her own place in the church, and, if the child seemed restless, she would wrap her up warmly in her own mantle and carry her with her. So Darlugdacha early took her part in the “Magnum Opus,” and the earliest words her tongue uttered were the praises of God. The music of the psaltery was her most frequent lullaby.

She was welcome everywhere, and in no place whithersoever her little pattering feet led her, did she find her help, however embarrassing to the recipient, disdained. Even when there were guests in the guest-house, and Blathnata, the cook, was very busy in the kitchen, Darlugdacha could enter that domain fearlessly, and, as Blathnata soon found out, could make herself astonishingly useful. The kitchen was a little round hut, which stood by itself behind the other cells. A fire of wood burned in the middle of it, the smoke escaping through a hole in the roof. It was always a joy to Darlugdacha when Blathnata swung the beautiful shining cauldron over the flames, and the cheerful simmering of the meat within filled the little hut with sound. She was very proud of herself when she was, at last, permitted to go near enough to the fire to turn the fish, or joints, that were roasting on spits of pointed hazel rods round the fire, and proudest of all, when Blathnata showed her how to baste them with honey. She was very young, indeed, when she cooked her first dish of Craibhacan, chopping the meat fine, and flavouring it with leeks, and kale, and rowan berries. Nathfraich, the charioteer, won her heart by making for her a tiny kneading trough, and a sieve with a whale-bone bottom, and he secured it for ever by manfully eating to the last crumb the first cake she baked with these utensils. Kinnia said, as she and Blathnata were carrying water one day from the covered well in the dairy to the kitchen, and Darlugdacha was trotting along by their side (her hand on one of the handles of the pail, as if she had the whole weight of it herself), that, for her part, she would rather eat a woman’s ration than a man’s ration of Darlugdacha’s baking. But when she saw Darlugdacha, presently, with one of Blathnata’s cooking-aprons on her (so as to save her white tunic), scrubbing away very busily at Blathnata’s wooden vessels, the little woman looked so sweet, that Kinnia told herself she would eat a whole cake, if it were necessary, to please her.

There was never such a busy little girl. When work was slack in the kitchen, there was the dairy to keep her in occupation. Brigid herself loved the dairy, and, mindful of her own young days, gave Darlugdacha the freedom of it early. In the delicious dawn-hour, when the sisters, one and all, went out to the milking, there was never a happier young thing, whether among the lambs, or the birds, or the flowers, than the tiny white maiden who trotted between Brigid and Daria, with each hand in one of theirs, laughing back at Kinnia and Blathnata, who carried the wooden milking vessels between them. She knew each of the cows by name, and she would call them out in her clear voice the moment she passed out of the door of the Lios, and came in sight of the “badhun” (bawn, lit. cow-fort), into which the cattle were driven each night for safety. And when the gate of the badhun was reached, there they were waiting for her—Bainidhe and Breacaidhe, and Sgead and Riabhac, and all the others, lowing in answer. And the sound of their bells put the birds on the tops of the apple-trees of the Lios, to shame.

It happened, however, one morning, that when Darlugdacha got to the gate of the badhun, she found among the waiting, lowing herd, no Bainidhe—the little white cow with the red ears, which was her special pet. It seemed that two lepers had come to Brigid the day before, and the sight of their miserable condition so prevailed with the compassionate Abbess that she promised to give them the best cow in her byre, leaving the choice to them. Of course, it naturally fell on Bainidhe.

Darlugdacha’s soft little heart was torn by two emotions when she heard the explanation of Bainidhe’s absence. She was dreadfully sorry, to be sure, for the poor lepers, whom she had learned to pray for night and morning. But, I fear me, she was far more sorry for Bainidhe, driven away from her nice, juicy pasturage, and the fragrant breath, and the lowing of her companions, and the warm shelter of the badhun—and the stroking of a little girl’s soft hand.

It was the turn of Brigid herself, that day, to drive the cows, after milking, from the badhun, and herd them in the Curragh. Usually, Darlugdacha would be out of herself with delight when it was proposed, as it was now, that she should go with her. But to-day it was clear that the delights of a day with the dear mother, all to herself, in the glorious plain, were overshadowed by the loss of Bainidhe. So Brigid told Kinnia to take Darlugdacha back with her to the dairy, and let her help to skim the cream, and stand as near as ever she liked to the cuinneog (churn), when the loinid (churn-dash) was beating the white milk-waves into flying froth—which, on ordinary occasions, was not considered a suitable place for a little girl, who had a white tunic to keep clean.

It took her some time before she was her cheerful little self again. Even the pat of butter Kinnia gave her to stamp failed to bring her consolation. But a good drenching in buttermilk froth helped her wonderfully; and when Kinnia (who, I am afraid, was not guiltless in the matter of that drenching) had wiped the small, rosy face dry again, she felt inclined to give credence to Kinnia’s expressed faith that she would see Bainidhe again before very long.

A greater number of poor came that day to the gate than usual. Darlugdacha was kept very busy helping Kinnia to attend to their wants. Here a poor woman wanted milk for her sick son; there a crippled girl had come for butter; for a poor man with a large family there was a great loaf of bread, with cheese and bacon, and a measure of milk. Now, as Darlugdacha flew from the kitchen to the dairy, and thence to the gate, she seemed to have in her ears all the time the lowing of Bainidhe. At last, towards evening, when all the other poor had departed, there came a great knocking with the “bas-chrannidhe” at the door; and when Kinnia and Darlugdacha went to open it, what should they find before them but the two lepers of the day before—and Bainidhe.

They had not been able to drive Bainidhe a single step beyond a certain point in the plain, well within sight of the Oak Tree. And so they had come back to ask Brigid to help them again.

Happy Darlugdacha, her small arms round Bainidhe’s white neck, her small hand alternately stroking Bainidhe’s nose, or pulling her red ear, was welcoming her restored darling, while Bainidhe was lowing with contentment, and trying to tell how clever she had been, and Kinnia was away with Blathnata in the kitchen, preparing a comfortable meal for the two poor lepers. At that moment the tinkling of cow-bells was heard, and Brigid came in sight, driving her cattle across the plain.

The lepers could not await her coming. They were off to meet her like two flashes of lightning. And presently, over the lowing of the cattle and the tinkling of the cow-bells, and the joyous barking of the “cubuachaill” (i.e., “dog-cowherd,” sheep-dog), Darlugdacha could hear their hoarse voices telling Brigid their story.

Then, quite suddenly, the tinkling of a cow-bell was heard from another direction, and a man was seen coming from the North driving a cow before him.

Darlugdacha left off stroking Bainidhe for a moment, and waited to see what would happen.

Brigid and the lepers and her cows came up with the stranger and his cow just at the Lios gate.

“My Master has sent this cow to thee as a gift,” said the man, and put an end of the halter that was round the cow’s neck in Brigid’s hand. With that he was off again.

Brigid looked at the cow which she held haltered, and then at the one Darlugdacha was stroking. And Darlugdacha looked at the new cow, and then at Bainidhe, and then back again. The two cows were exactly alike.

“Methinks my Master has sent this cow to you, poor men,” said Brigid, “instead of the one that would not go with you.” She put the halter into the hands of the two lepers; and when Kinnia and Blathnata had given them food, they drove off their new cow contentedly.

Since they did not come back for a long long time, I feel sure that the second cow must have gone with them obediently. As for Bainidhe, she was driven with her other companions into the badhun, and Darlugdacha stood very close to her, while Brigid herself milked her.

In those days, when the ideal of education was the direct preparation of the child for the duties which his future station in life was likely to lay on him, the law itself took cognisance of the necessity of training girls in the arts of household management. “The use of the quern, and the kneading trough, and the use of the sieve are to be taught to their daughters” says the Senchus Mór to Foster Parents in one place; and, again, to those who foster the children of Chieftains, “sewing, and cutting-out, and embroidery are to be taught to their daughters.”

You may be sure then that Darlugdacha (whom Brigid held in fosterage for the High King of Heaven Himself) was early trained in the use of the spindle, and the distaff, and the needle. In the quiet evenings of the tender Irish summer-time, when the nuns sat on the lawn under the shadow of the great oak, and Brigid, her poet’s soul stirred to the depths by the beauty of the world around her, was thinking, with pity, of Daria’s blindness, a little girl could be seen making a very brave attempt to imitate whatever she saw Kinnia, and Daria, and Blathnata, and Brigid herself do. It was Daria’s task to comb the wool. She drew it out in handfuls from the bag at her feet, and combed it with a pair of “cards” until it was fit for spinning. Then she turned it over to Blathnata, who wound it first loosely on the cuigeal (distaff), and then, dexterously, spun it on to the spindle. Kinnia was kept busy with her bronze needle and ball of wool, fashioning garments for the sisters themselves, or for the many poor who depended on them. And, while Brigid’s clever artist-fingers are copying on some beautiful ecclesiastical garment, with many coloured, precious threads, the design stamped on the leather pattern she holds before her, let us, whose fashionable pedagogy lays so much stress on “Object Lessons,” think how fortunate Darlugdacha is. There is not a process, from the sowing of the flax-seed to the making up of the linen altar-cloth, that she has not witnessed with her own eyes. She has been able to follow, step by step, the evolution of the woollen garment which Kinnia is fashioning—from the shearing of the sheep onward.

In the winter evenings the sisters sat in the loom-house, and wove the flaxen and woollen yarn they had prepared during the summer into linen and cloth. Darlugdacha loved to sit by, in the light of the rush candles, and watch the shuttle being flung back and forth. But something more precious was being woven during these hours than the web on the loom; and many a wonderful old story, many a gracious thought, many a poem, and many a prayer, were being patterned into the weaving of it. The old Irish, a people courteous and sociable, held no one cultured who could not “talk” well. Story-telling, as a great test of education and good breeding, was the accomplishment they valued most. Little Darlugdacha, who was set aside to be the bride of the King of Kings, was in the thought of those who fostered her to get the culture of a Princess. Can you picture her, a little white girl, sitting very close to her dear mother, telling, when the turn for a tale comes to her, some story she has been taught concerning the ancient days and ways in Erinn? Very sweetly and gravely the clear, treble voice carries the tale. Do you notice how pleasant is its “timbre,” how very expressive its inflections, how charming and musical its modulations? There is no instrument from which better effects can be obtained than the human “speaking” voice; and do they not do well, in this ancient Ireland, to which we have slipped back in search of our Darlugdacha, to devote great care to its cultivation? It is true they are fortunate in having in this language they speak, rich in sounds, full of delicately-shaded endings, a marvellous exerciser. And have we nothing to learn from Darlugdacha’s teachers?

We have still other things to learn from Darlugdacha’s teachers. Those story-telling lessons held many lessons in one. In a highly inflected language, like Old Irish, to learn to tell a continuous tale was to undergo, among other things, a thorough drill in Grammar. The material of the tale was a storehouse of instruction in History and Geography. The Memory-training, which we try to combine with an awakening of the aesthetic faculties when we prescribe the memorising of poetry for our youngsters, was admirably acquired by the same means. As for “Education,” there was Character-training in those old tales that set the heart beating for noble deeds, nobly done. Character-training, too, in the reasoned patriotism they taught by showing why Ireland was a country to be loved, and how to love her. Courtesy and Dignity ever hovered before the apprentice story-teller as the ideal to be striven for. Courtesy demanded the best of him, that it might be offered to his neighbour for his neighbour’s pleasure. Dignity and Self-respect demanded the best of him, that it might be worthy of himself.

You must not go away with the idea, however, that Darlugdacha’s “Instruction” was all gained by learning to re-tell the old tales. She had her reading and writing lessons, too. I like to think that the same method was adopted with her to make her learn her letters, as was found efficacious with Saint Columbkille. Perhaps Blathnata made a cake for her—a nice cake with plenty of honey in it—and traced the alphabet on the top of it. As Darlugdacha learned to know the letters, she could make her very own of them, you see, by eating them. It may have required more than one cake to make the process of instruction complete. No matter how many were needed, I am sure Blathnata did not spare them.

At last, Darlugdacha had got beyond her alphabet cakes, and was all afire to get helping the sisters to copy the psalter. Cilldara was a small place in those days, and had no “Teach Screptra.”[5] But the books hung in their leathern satchels from hooks along the walls of the Erdam (or Sacristy) that opened off the little Church. Hither came the nuns in turn to help to make the new copies, of which the Abbess had constant need to bestow in alms on poor churches. Two or three other virgins had joined the community since Darlugdacha’s coming; and one of them, the daughter of a scribe, was particularly skilful at the work. Darlugdacha was fascinated by it. She would stand for hours at a time watching the clever pen go delicately over the vellum—and longing for the day when she, too, would sit at a desk with a quill in her right hand, and a knife in her left to keep it pointed, with her conical ink-cup fastened to her chair-arm—a fully-equipped scribe. In the meantime, she was forced to content herself with her fan-shaped, waxed tablets, on which she practised copying with a metal “style.” When the wax surface was used up, she rubbed it smooth, and began over again. Thus the little hands grew sure and steady—and, at last, one day, on an old piece of vellum, they tried their skill with the pen.

Down across the ages, from those exquisite days, fresh and beautiful as the summer dawn, there has come to us a poem of Brigid’s. It sets us in the midst of the preparations for a great Church Festival, where the Guest of Honour was to be One Who, indeed, was never absent from the midst of the white band of women whom the Oak Tree sheltered. For, was not every act of theirs a prayer? And were they not gathered together in His name? And hath He not made a promise? Nevertheless, it is fitting that, at Easter time His Resurrection be honoured, and the poor and the afflicted, His chosen representatives, be made joyful. So as the paschal moon gets nearer and nearer to its white perfecting in the East, the little hive beneath the Oak Tree grows busier. There is ale to be brewed for the faithful who shall attend the Celebration of the Passion in the neighbouring churches. There is corn to be ground in the querns, to be ready for baking into paschal cakes, or dealt out to the needy. There are candles for the altar to be made of virgin wax from the bee-hives in the nuns’ scented garden. There is store of meat to be salted and cooked for the banqueting table, spread for the poor. In the little wooden Church, blind Daria, the sacristan, is laying out her choicest vestments, taking from their places of safety the precious vessels. The altar linen, snowy from the brook, stands ready. Around His Throne are flowers and fragrant herbs.

And little Darlugdacha is flitting, like a white bird, in the midst of it all, singing Brigid’s hymn—finding, in all this preparation, its mystic significance, learning the reading of the Riddle of Life:—

I should like a great lake of ale

For the King of the Kings;

I should like the family of Heaven

To be drinking it through time eternal.

I should like the viands

Of belief and pure piety;

I should like flails

Of penance at my house.

I should like the men of Heaven

In my own house.

I should like kieves

Of peace to be at their disposal.

I should like vessels

Of charity for distribution;

I should like caves

Of mercy for their company.

I should like cheerfulness

To be in their drinking;

I should like Jesus

Here to be among them.

I should like the three

Marys of illustrious renown;

I should like the people

Of Heaven, there from all parts.

I should like that I should be

A rent-payer to the Lord;

That should I suffer distress,

He would bestow upon me a good blessing.