Hero-Myths & Legends of the British Race
safety of the Roman army. In each case the powers, evil or
beneficent, were supposed to be appeased by the offering of a human
life. When Christianity found this legend of sacrifice popular among
the heathen nations, it was comparatively easy to adopt it and give it
a yet wider scope, by making the sacrifice spiritual rather than
physical, and by finally rewarding the hero with heavenly joys. It is
to be noted, too, that even at this early period there is a certain
glorification of chicanery: the fiend fulfils his side of the
contract, but God Himself breaks the other side. This becomes a
regular feature in all tales that relate dealings with the Evil One:
all Devil's Bridges, Devil's Dykes, and the Faust legends show that
Satan may be trusted to keep his word, while the saints invariably
kept the letter and broke the spirit. To so primitive a tale as that
of "The Countess Cathleen" the pettifogging quibbles of later saints
are utterly unknown: God saves her soul because it is His will to
reward such abnegation of self, and even the Evil One dare not
question the Divine Will.
The Story. Happy Ireland
Once, long ago, as the Chronicles tell us, Ireland was known
throughout Europe as "The Isle of Saints," for St. Patrick had not
long before preached the Gospel, the message of good tidings, to the
warring inhabitants, to tribes of uncivilised Celts, and to marauding
Danes and Vikings. He had driven out the serpent-worshippers, and
consecrated the Black Stone of Tara to the worship of the True God; he
had convinced the High King of the truth and reasonableness of the
doctrine of the Trinity by the illustration of the shamrock leaf, and
had overthrown the great idols and purified the land. Therefore the
fair shores and fertile vales of Erin, the clustered islets, dropped
like jewels in the azure seas, the mist-covered, heather-clad
hill-sides, even the barren mountain-tops and the patches of firm
ground scattered in the solitudes of fathomless bogs, were homes of
pious Culdee or lonely hermit. There was still strife in Ireland, for
king fought with king, and heathen marauders still vexed the land; but
many warlike Irish clans or "septs" turned their ardour for fight to
religious conflicts, and often every man of a tribe became a monk, so
that great abbeys and tribal monasteries and schools were built on the
hills where, in former days, stood the chieftain's stronghold (_rath_
or _dun_, as Irish legends name it), with its earth mounds and wooden
palisades. Holy psalms and chants replaced the boastful songs of the
old bards, whilst warriors accustomed to regard fighting and hunting
as the only occupations worthy of a free-born man, now peacefully
illuminated manuscripts or wrought at useful handicrafts. Yet still in
secret they dreaded and tried to appease the wrath of the Dagda,
Brigit of the Holy Fire, AEngus the Ever-Young, and the awful Washers
of the Ford, the Choosers of the Slain; and to this dread was now
joined the new fear of the cruel demons who obeyed Satan, the Prince
of Evil.
The Young Countess
At this time there dwelt in Ireland the Countess Cathleen, young,
good, and beautiful. Her eyes were as deep, as changeful, and as pure
as the ocean that washed Erin's shores; her yellow hair, braided in
two long tresses, was as bright as the golden circlet on her brow or
the yellow corn in her garners; and her step was as light and proud
and free as that of the deer in her wide domains. She lived in a
stately castle in the midst of great forests, with the cottages of her
tribesmen around her gates, and day by day and year by year she
watched the changing glories of the mighty woods, as the seasons
brought new beauties, till her soul was as lovely as the green woods
and purple hills around. The Countess Cathleen loved the dim,
mysterious forest, she loved the tales of the ancient gods, and of
"Old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago;"
_Wordsworth._
but more than all she loved her clansmen and vassals: she prayed for
them at all the holy hours, and taught and tended them with loving
care, so that in no place in Ireland could be found a happier tribe
than that which obeyed her gentle rule.
Dearth and Famine
One year there fell upon Ireland, erewhile so happy, a great
desolation--"For Scripture saith, an ending to all good things must
be"[15]--and the happiness of the Countess Cathleen's tribe came to an
end in this wise: A terrible famine fell on the land; the seed-corn
rotted in the ground, for rain and never-lifting mists filled the
heavy air and lay on the sodden earth; then when spring came barren
fields lay brown where the shooting corn should be; the cattle died in
the stall or fell from weakness at the plough, and the sheep died of
hunger in the fold; as the year passed through summer towards autumn
the berries failed in the sun-parched woods, and the withered leaves,
fallen long before the time, lay rotting on the dank earth; the timid
wild things of the forest, hares, rabbits, squirrels, died in their
holes or fell easy victims to the birds and beasts of prey; and these,
in their turn, died of hunger in the famine-stricken forests.
"I searched all day: the mice and rats and hedgehogs
Seemed to be dead, and I could hardly hear
A wing moving in all the famished woods."[16]
Distress of the Peasants
A cry of bitter agony and lamentation rose from the starving Isle of
Saints to the gates of Heaven, and fell back unheard; the sky was hard
as brass above and the earth was barren beneath, and men and women
died in despair, their shrivelled lips still stained green by the
dried grass and twigs they had striven to eat.
"I passed by Margaret Nolan's: for nine days
Her mouth was green with dock and dandelion;
And now they wake her."
The Misery Increases
In vain the High King of Ireland proclaimed a universal peace, and
wars between quarrelling tribes stopped and foreign pirates ceased to
molest the land, and chief met chief in the common bond of misery; in
vain the rich gave freely of their wealth--soon there was no
distinction between rich and poor, high and low, chief and vassal, for
all alike felt the grip of famine, all died by the same terrible
hunger. Soon many of the great monasteries lay desolate, their stores
exhausted, their portals open, while the brethren, dead within, had
none to bury them; the lonely hermits died in their little
beehive-shaped cells, or fled from the dreadful solitude to gather in
some wealthy abbey which could still feed its monks; and isle and vale
which had echoed their holy chants knew the sounds no more. Over all,
unlifting, unchanging, brooded the deadly vapour, bearing the plague
in its heavy folds, and filling the air with a sultry lurid haze.
"There is no sign of change--day copies day,
Green things are dead--the cattle too are dead
Or dying--and on all the vapour hangs
And fattens with disease, and glows with heat."
Cathleen Heartbroken for her People
Round the castle of the Countess Cathleen there was great stir and
bustle, for her tender heart was wrung with the misery of her people,
and her prayers for them ascended to God unceasingly. So thin she grew
and so worn that the physicians bade her servants bring harp and song
to charm away the sadness that weighed upon her spirit; but all in
vain! Neither the well-loved legends of the ancient gods, nor her
harp, nor the voice of her bards could bring her relief--nothing but
the attempt to save her people. From the earliest days of the famine
her house and her stores were ever ready to supply the wants of the
homeless, the poor, the suffering; her wealth was freely spent for
food for the starving while supplies could yet be bought either near
or in distant baronies; and when known supplies failed her lavish
offers tempted the churlish farmers, who still hoarded grain that they
might enrich themselves in the great dearth, to sell some of their
garnered stores. When she could no longer induce them to part with
their grain, her own winter provisions, wine and corn, were
distributed generously to all who asked for relief, and none ever left
her castle without succour.
Her Wide Charity
Thus passed the early months of bitter starvation, and the Countess
Cathleen's name was borne far and wide through Ireland, accompanied
with the blessings of all the rescued; and round her castle, from
every district, gathered a mighty throng of poor--not only her own
clansmen--who all looked to her for a daily dole of food and drink to
keep some life in them until the pestilential mists should pass away.
The wholesome cold of winter would purify the air and bring new hope
and promise of new life in the coming year. Alas! the winter drew on
apace and still the poisonous yellow vapours hung heavily over the
land, and still the deadly famine clutched each feeble heart and
weakened the very springs of life, and the winter frosts slew more
than the summer heats, so feeble were the people and so weakened.
Lawlessness Breaks Out
At last, even in the Isle of Saints, the bonds of right and wrong were
loosened, all respect for property vanished in the universal
desolation, and men began to rob and plunder, to trust only to the
right of might, thinking that their poor miserable lives were of more
value than aught else, than conscience and pity and honesty. Thus
Cathleen lost by barefaced robbery much of what she still possessed of
flocks and herds, of scanty fruit and corn. Her servants would gladly
have pursued the robbers and regained the spoils, but Cathleen forbade
it, for she pitied the miserable thieves, and thought no evil of them
in this bitter dearth. By this time she had distributed all her winter
stores, and had only enough to feed her poor pensioners and her
household with most scanty rations; and she herself shared equally
with them, for the most earnest entreaties of her faithful servants
could not induce her to fare better than they in anything. Soon there
would be nothing left for daily distribution, and her heart almost
broke as she saw the misery of her helpless dependents; they looked to
her as an angel of pity and deliverance, while she knew herself to be
as helpless as they. Day by day Cathleen went among them, with her
pitifully scanty doles of food, cheering them by her words and
smiles, and by her very presence; and each day she went to her chapel,
where she could cast aside the mask of cheerfulness she wore before
her people, and prayed to the Blessed Virgin Mary and all the saints
to show her how to save her own tribe and all the land.
Cathleen Has an Inspiration
As the Countess knelt long before the altar one noontide she passed
from her prayers into a deep sleep, and sank down on the altar steps.
In the troubled depths of her mind a thought arose, which came to her
as an inspiration from Heaven itself. She awoke and sprang up
joyfully, exclaiming aloud: "Thanks be to Our Lady and to all the
saints! To them alone the blessed thought is due. Thus can I save my
poor until the dearth is over."
Then Cathleen left her oratory with such a light heart as she had not
felt since the terrible visitation began, and the gladness in her face
was so new and wonderful that all her servants noticed the change, and
her old foster-mother, who loved the Countess with the utmost
devotion, shuddered at the thought that perhaps her darling had come
under the power of the ancient gods and would be bewitched away to
Tir-nan-og, the land of never-dying youth. Fearfully old Oona watched
Cathleen's face as she passed through the hall, and Cathleen saw the
anxious gaze, and came and laid her hand on the old woman's shoulder,