When Kevin fled from Kilnamanagh and its dangers, he penetrated to the very heart of this wilderness, and took up his abode in its most inaccessible retreats. The writer of his Life gives a most accurate description of the spot which he chose for his place of abode. “It was a valley closed in with lofty and precipitous mountains, and in the western part of this valley towards the south he found a lake enclosed between two mountains.”[322] On the shores of this lake he lived for seven years the life of a solitary, without fire, without a roof, and almost without human food. “On the northern shore his dwelling was in a hollow tree; but on the southern shore of the lake he dwelt in a very narrow cave, to which there was no access except by a boat, for a perpendicular rock of immense height overhangs it from above.” This is St. Kevin’s Bed on the face of Lugduff, overhanging the southern shore of the Upper Lake, whose deep waters wash the base of the rock 30 feet beneath. Even from the lake the path is steep and difficult, but not dangerous. Very few, however, have the steadiness and courage to descend to the cave from the overhanging cliffs above.

The cave itself is only about four feet square, and not high enough to stand upright in. But there is a smaller hollow within where the saint might lay his head and snatch his few hours of brief repose. It was a dizzy height, and a hard bed; but we cannot judge of the saints of God by our own worldly and selfish standard. And for one who loved God and His glorious works, as St. Kevin did, there were never wanting, by day or night, sights and sounds to fill his mind with manifold ideas of the wondrous attributes of the great Author of all. The majesty of these dark mountains, the changing glories of these lakes and streams, the voices of the falling waters, the roaring of the storms through the wintry hills, Arturus and the Bear rising over the lofty crest of Comaderry and for ever silently sweeping round the changeless pole, the morning sun flooding the dark valley with light—a pale reflection of the splendour around the Great White Throne—these were the sights that met his eyes, and the voices that spoke in his ears during the days and nights that he spent on the rocky floor of his narrow cell. He spoke to no man, but he communed with God and Nature—his body was on the naked rock, but his soul was in heaven. It was during these years that the birds and beasts came to know and to love the gentle saint, who lived as Adam did in Paradise. He had made for himself a hut of boughs on the northern shore of the lake, where he spent much of his time, and we are told that the birds used to come and alight on his hands and shoulders, and sing for him their sweetest songs; and that the trees were like Æolian harps whose melody lightened the toilsome routine of his life. As for his food, “no man knows on what he lived during these years, for he himself never revealed it to anyone.”

But now it pleased God to make known the virtues of his servant to his fellow men. A shepherd discovered the saint’s retreat, and told far and wide of the holy man who had led for so long the life of an angel in the desert. Crowds of persons made their way to the heart of the mountains, and St. Kevin could no longer be alone. It was revealed to him that he was destined to be the father of many monks, and he submitted to the will of Providence.

Still he was at first unwilling to go far from his beloved cave in Lugduff. So they built him a cell—a circular bee-hive hut of stones—close to the southern shore of the lake; and near at hand his disciples also built him an oratory on a rock projecting from the base of Lugduff into the lake, hence called Tempull-na-Skellig. This was the “clara cella quae Desertum Coemghini appellatur.”[323] But that beautiful and celebrated oratory is now, like the saint’s cell, almost a heap of ruins—the sight-seers are even worse than the Danes, and fifty years of tourists in the mountain valley have caused more ruin to these venerable monuments than centuries of civil strife. Not far from Tempull-na-Skellig, and on the same southern shore of the Upper Lake, there is another ruined church and church-yard, known in the guide books as Rifearta Church; that is, the ‘royal cemetery’ (righ-fearta) of the O’Toole kings. They were not the original rulers of this district; but after the Norman Conquest they retired from the plains of Kildare before the invaders, and held these valleys and mountains as a stronghold of freedom against the ‘strangers.’

But this place became too small for the multitude of the saint’s disciples, who now dwelt around his little church—it was inconveniently situated, too, and very difficult of access. So God’s Angel appeared to Kevin, and commanded him to go and build his monastery at the eastern shore of the smaller lake, about half a mile further down the valley.

“If it was God’s will,” said Kevin, “I should prefer to remain until my death near this place, where I have laboured in His service.” “Nay,” said the Angel, “if you dwell where I say, many thousands of happy souls will have their resurrection there, and go with you to the heavenly kingdom.” Then the Angel led the saint, after he had spent four years at Lugduff, to the eastward of the smaller lake, and marked out the site of his church and monastery; and “there he built that celebrated monastery of the Valley of the Two Lakes, which was the mother house of many others.”

And there, too, he lived as of old in the practice of the most rigid austerity. “He was clothed in the coarsest garments; his bed was the bare ground; he broke his fast at evening on a meal of herbs and water; he kept constant and prayerful vigils often in the open air; and so he lived a long time in the monastery, as he used to live in the desert, until at the earnest entreaty of many holy men he consented at last to live like his monks in the ordinary monastic way.” It is evident that the saint was most reluctant to give up those habits of extreme asceticism which he had adopted in the desert; and he only yielded in deference to the entreaties of other venerable men who feared to lose so precious a life.

It is not to be wondered at that large crowds of disciples came to the monastery of this great servant of God, and were anxious to place themselves under his guidance, so that Glendalough became a seminary of saints and scholars, who went forth from its halls to found other monasteries, and rule other churches. In fact, it became quite a ‘city’ in the desert, whose citizens were “cives sanctorum et domestici Dei,” clothed with human nature, but living like the household of God in heaven.

At this period Kevin must have been still a comparatively young man, certainly not exceeding forty years of age. For all these events are narrated in his life as if happening before he left Glendalough to pay a visit to the holy abbots, Columba, Comgall, and Canice, who met the saint of Glendalough at the celebrated hill of Uisnech (now Usney) in Westmeath. This visit is represented as having taken place only a few days after the death of St. Ciaran at Clonmacnois, which happened in A.D. 544, so that the large monastery of Glendalough was probably founded about A.D. 540, when the saint was 42 years of age. The hill of Uisnech was from time immemorial a celebrated place of meeting, being situated in the centre of Ireland, and, though belonging to Meath, it was considered neutral ground, with the privilege of sanctuary during these meetings. It is probable these holy abbots, Columba of Kells and Durrow, Comgall of Bangor, Canice of Aghaboe, were met together for the transaction of some weighty matters arising from the accession of the new king of Tara, Diarmaid Mac Cearbhaill, and they invited to their meeting the already famous abbot of the great Leinster monastery. In the Life of Kevin it is said that he went to establish, or confirm, a league of brotherly friendship with these saints; and so much was he respected that Columba stood up at his approach, and remained standing until he arrived. And when the ruder multitude (plebs) censured the great Columba for acting thus in deference to an unknown stranger, Columba warmly replied:—“Foolish men! why should not I stand at the approach of that servant of God, in whose honour God’s Angels in heaven will yet rise from their thrones?”

After his return to Glendalough he presided over that great monastery and school for 60 years more, leading still the same heavenly life, training others by word and example to walk in the paths of holiness, and confirming his teaching by the performance of many miracles. But as was well said by one of his disciples, his own life was the greatest miracle of all. Special mention is made of two of his favourite disciples—St. Berach, who himself afterwards founded a great monastery at Cluaincairpthe, since called Tarmonbarry, on the banks of the Shannon, and Mochoroy, a Briton, who was for many years a loving disciple of the saint and founder of the Church of Delgany. He enjoyed the great privilege of giving the Viaticum to Kevin, when the holy old man was about to be called away to his reward. St. Kevin died on the 3rd of June, A.D. 618, at the great age of 120 years, and was buried by his sorrowing children in his own church at Glendalough.

The memory of St. Kevin is greatly revered, not only in Wicklow but in all parts of Ireland; and he seems to hold a place in popular affection next after the great patron saints of Ireland, Patrick, Bridget, and Columcille.

Some writings have been attributed to the saint, amongst others a Life of St. Patrick, but without sufficient evidence. He was certainly the author of a very celebrated monastic Rule, which unhappily is no longer extant. It would be invaluable as exhibiting the special bent of his mind in the formation of the religious character. It was in this that his great influence made itself felt during the long years of his life. It was by this means he stamped his own character on the minds of his disciples, and made Glendalough famous during subsequent centuries as a nursery of holy and learned men. His monastery was for the East of Ireland for many ages what Aran of St. Enda was for the West—a great school of asceticism, a novitiate for the training of the young saints and clergy of Erin in virtue even more than in knowledge. It was also his noble ambition to elevate the standard of ecclesiastical knowledge, and make the cloister not only the home of all virtue, but an asylum of the liberal arts. This was all the more necessary in a turbulent and semi-barbarous age, when the strong hand made its own laws. In this respect the seclusion of Glendalough, as well as the sanctity of its founder and of its holy places, rendered it a most secure asylum down to the advent of the Danes, and even after their departure down to the time of the Anglo-Normans.

II.—Ruins at Glendalough.

The existing ruins in the ancient city of Glendalough may, as we have observed, be divided into two groups—those at the shore of the Upper Lake, to which we have already referred, and those at the junction of the two rivers and east of the Lower Lake, which constitute the city proper. This group of buildings was enclosed by a caiseal, or strong stone wall, which not only served the purposes of defence, but also marked the limits of the clausura, or enclosed space, which females were not allowed to enter, nor the monks to leave without permission. Within this enclosure are the ruins of the following buildings:—(1) the cathedral; (2) the round tower; (3) Cro Coemghin, or St. Kevin’s kitchen; (4) the Church of the Blessed Virgin.

The wall of the cashel has now almost entirely disappeared; but the magnificent gateway by which it was entered, after crossing the bridge of the Glendasan river, still remains. “This gateway was very nearly a square, being sixteen feet between the side walls and sixteen feet six between the perforated or arched walls.”[324] It was built of mica slate—the stone of the district—except the arches and pilasters, which are built of large chiselled blocks of granite. The two arches are of equal height—five feet to the chord and ten to the soffit. A tower arose originally over this double arch, but it has now quite disappeared. There can be no doubt that the gateway tower and cashel were coeval with the completed monastery, and date from the beginning of the seventh century.

The nave of the great church or cathedral, and the round tower are, in Petrie’s opinion, coeval, and also belong to the early part of the seventh century. He bases his opinion mainly on the character of the masonry, which in the tower is perfectly similar to that of the round tower of Kilmacduagh. There is historical evidence that the great Church of Kilmacduagh was built by Guaire Aidhne, about the year A.D. 610. The masonry of this church is so similar to that of the tower at Kilmacduagh that they must be regarded as of contemporaneous construction. The magnificent tower of Glendalough is still 110 feet high; with its conical cap it would have been originally 132 feet high. The door-way is at present ten feet from the ground, and is perfectly similar in construction to the door-ways of the ancient churches in the valley—in this, that they are all constructed of chiselled blocks of granite, while the walls are built of the rubble masonry with the stones of the district. The door-way is five feet seven inches high, two feet wide at the sill, and one foot ten inches at the arch, which is cut out of the stone—a feature characteristic of our earliest churches. The nave of the great church which is of the same date (the chancel is in the later ornamented style), and of perfectly similar masonry, was 55 feet in length by 37 in breadth; the chancel seem to have been a later addition.

The building called St. Kevin’s Kitchen, with its belfry tower and high pitched stone roof, is perhaps the most interesting building at Glendalough, and was, there is no longer reason to doubt, like Columcille’s House at Kells, the oratory and dormitory of the saint. It is evident, upon close examination, that the chancel and sacristy annexed to it, as well as the belfry, were later additions. It was originally a simple oblong 30 feet long and a little more than 22 feet wide; the side walls are 11 feet in height, whilst its height to the ridge of the roof is 31 feet. The lower apartment was an oratory arched with stone, the high pitch of the stone roof leaving space for the croft, or upper chamber, which was at once the cell and sleeping apartment of the saint himself—the oratory beneath was what would now be called a private oratory. The belfry is a small round tower, with conical cap, at the western end of the building.

“Our Lady’s Church” is situated a little to the west of these buildings already described, which are in close proximity to each other. It is said to have been the first church built by the saint, eastward of the smaller lake; and its architecture confirms this tradition. The door-way is of singular beauty, and of the most primitive type. It is figured in Petrie’s great work, and exhibits all the characteristic features of the earliest doorways. The architrave, however, is ornamented with a plain double moulding; and a cross, saltier-wise, is carved on the soffit of the lintel. St. Kevin himself was buried within this ancient church, which he had dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary.[325] His grave was shown in the last century, but it seems that it is now covered over with rubbish from the falling walls. This is also called the Ivy Church, for its walls are festooned with that charitable creeper which flings so much beauty around decay.

This group of buildings was all erected during the lifetime of the saint, or shortly after his death. There were, however, two other edifices further down the valley to the east, of a more ornamental character and of later date.

‘Trinity Church’ is about a furlong eastward of the ‘City’ proper, standing alone close to the road on the left from Larah to those buildings which we have just described. It has, or rather had, a chancel with a very beautiful semicircular chancel arch, and also a round tower, which Petrie thinks was built so late as the thirteenth century when the valley of the saints had become “a nest of robbers and murderers.” Still further to the east near Larah bridge, and about a mile from the ‘City,’ was the Priory of St. Saviour, or as it is sometimes called, the Monastery. It is now almost a heap of ruins; portions, however, of the pilasters supporting the chancel arch still remain. The nave of this church was 42 feet long by 26 in breadth; the monastic buildings seem to have been annexed to the north side of the church, but cannot now be traced. Its most interesting feature, however, was the elaborate carving in low-relief on the bases and capitals of the piers (at one side only) that supported the chancel arch. The character of the ornamentation would seem to point to the end of the eleventh, or the beginning of the twelfth century, as the probable date of this once beautiful building. The little oratory within the cathedral cemetery, called the “Priest’s House,” which has now completely disappeared, but of which drawings are preserved, also belonged to the Romanesque period. It was called the ‘Priests’ House,’ according to Petrie, because it was reserved for the burial place of the Roman Catholic clergy of the surrounding districts.

Within the cemetery, which surrounds the cathedral and is much overcrowded with graves, was the famous yew tree, said to have been planted by St. Kevin himself; but it has now entirely disappeared. It is said that some of its branches were lopped off to make furniture, and that the ancient tree then gradually withered and decayed.

In close proximity to St. Kevin’s Kitchen there were anciently several other buildings, all traces of which have now quite disappeared. Mention is made of Cro-Chiarain or St. Ciaran’s House, and also of the church of the “Two Sinchells”—Regles an da Sinchell—the patron saints of Killeigh in the King’s County. These saints were friends and contemporaries of St. Kevin, and probably resided for a while in the ‘Houses’ which they or their disciples had constructed in the holy valley. The remains of numerous ancient crosses and tombstones have been discovered during the recent restorations, and are now better cared for than they were heretofore.

III.—St. Moling.

Many celebrated scholars were trained in Glendalough from the time of St. Kevin to St. Laurence O’Toole. The See of Glendalough, too, occupied a highly honourable position amongst the bishoprics of Leinster, sometimes claiming the place of honour next to Kildare itself. Yet there is no evidence that St. Kevin himself was raised to the episcopal dignity; and we may fairly assume that if he were a bishop the fact would not have been passed over in silence by the writers of his Life. But the fame of the monastery and schools became so great during the life of the holy founder, that his successor and nephew, St. Molibba, was consecrated bishop, and probably during the lifetime of St. Kevin himself. The subsequent prelates are styled sometimes ‘bishops,’ and sometimes ‘abbots’ of Glendalough; and in one instance, at least, that of the abbot Cormac, who died in A.D. 925, the same person is styled bishop and abbot.

It was during the abbacy of Molibba that the school of Glendalough produced a distinguished pupil, whose name is well known in Leinster, that is, St. Moling, the patron and founder of St. Mullins.

St. Moling was one of the most celebrated of the holy and learned men who were trained in Glendalough during the lifetime, or shortly after the death of the founder. His name is still preserved in the parish and barony of St. Mullins, on the left bank of the Barrow, in the extreme south-west of the county Carlow. Moling’s first name was Daircell or Taircell. He came of the royal race of Cathaoir Mor, a celebrated king of Leinster in the third century of the Christian era. His father’s name was Faolain, whence he is sometimes called Mac Faolain, and his mother Eamhnat, is said to have been a Kerry woman. Though sprung from the Ui Deagha, on the left bank of the Barrow, he was probably born in his mother’s country; and hence he is sometimes called Moling Luachra, from the mountain district in Kerry, where he was either born or fostered amongst the friends of his mother. The date of his birth is not known; but as he died in A.D. 697, it was probably some time in the early part of the same century.

Few particulars of his early life are preserved, except certain miraculous stories, which we need not refer to here. It is expressly stated, however, that he spent some time in the monastery of Glendalough, which was not very far from Hy-Kinsellagh, and was then the most celebrated establishment in Leinster. As St. Kevin died about A.D. 618, young Moling cannot have seen much of that great saint, if indeed he ever had an opportunity of meeting him at all. But the spirit of Kevin was there—his Rule and his discipline flourished in Glendalough; and hence in any case we may regard St. Moling as his disciple. It was most probably at Glendalough that the young saint acquired that great knowledge of the Sacred Scriptures which he afterwards manifested, as well as those exalted virtues which bore such lasting fruit on the banks of the Barrow.

The place where he founded his cell and monastery was then called Achadh Cainidh; but the name was soon changed into Teach Moling—the House of Moling—since corrupted into St. Mullins. He chose for his home a beautiful spot on a gentle eminence overlooking the noble river, which at this point mingles its waters with the rising tide between the green meadows and rich groves that crown its swelling banks. A small stream here joins the Barrow, and Moling built his monastery on the high ground, between the junction of the river and the stream. His own cell he built lower down, close to the river, for he loved to be alone with God as much as possible, although he frequently visited his monastery, and allowed his monks to confer with himself whenever it was necessary.

He had, too, that love of useful labour which pre-eminently marked the great Benedictine Order. Laborare est orare. To labour is to pray—when the labour is sanctified by its motive and its object. Moling wished to grind the corn for his monks, and for this purpose, with his own hands, he dug a mill-race from the stream already referred to, in such a way as to convey the water more than a hundred yards from the river, even through high ground, in order to get a fall for the water to turn the mill-wheel near his monastery. He kept a curragh, too, on the river, near his own cell, and was always ready to ferry strangers across the broad river, who came to pray and do penance at the monastery. During all this time his food was herbs and water; and according to some accounts—probably in imitation of St. Kevin—he lived a long time within a hollow tree.

His austerities and his virtues soon attracted around Moling a great number of disciples, so that a large community was formed under his guidance and direction. The ruins of four ancient churches are still to be seen on the slope of the hill overlooking the Barrow and the streamlet, some of which were certainly built in his time. It is said, too, that a portion of the mill-stone of Moling’s mill was found in the stream, and that the mill-race which he dug out can still be clearly traced.

St. Aidan, called also Mo-Eadan, which has been shortened into Moedog and Moque, the celebrated Bishop of Ferns, died A.D. 632. It is said that he wished St. Moling to be his successor, and that the princes and clergy of Leinster invited Moling to become the Bishop of Ferns. Reluctantly the saint complied with their wishes—for he loved Teach Moling much—and preferred to spend his life there in solitude, attending only to himself and the direction of the chosen souls, who placed themselves under his direction. But God willed it otherwise; and Moling became, at least for some years, Bishop, or High-bishop of Ferns—for at this period a certain kind of precedence was claimed for Ferns over the other bishoprics of Leinster. It is by no means certain, however, that Moling became Bishop of Ferns in immediate succession to Aidan in A.D. 632. If so he must have afterwards resigned his See, which is highly probable, and thus made room for other bishops of Ferns, whose names are mentioned in connection with that See during the seventh century, and during the lifetime of Moling himself. It cannot, therefore, be determined whether he became Bishop of Ferns in A.D. 632 or 691—the former is, however, the more probable date.

Moling procured for his tribesmen one signal temporal advantage—the remission of the celebrated cow-tribute, called the Borumha, which was levied by the King of Tara in Leinster every three years. It was an oppressive tax, originally inflicted for a great crime committed by the King of Leinster in A.D. 106, and was productive of much bloodshed, and mutual hatred between the men of Leinster and the Hy-Niall. Now King Finnachta the Festive had already twice exacted the tribute, and was coming to levy it a third time. The Lagenians resolved to fight rather than to pay; but first of all it was deemed expedient to get St. Moling to use his great influence in their behalf to have the tribute remitted. The saint succeeded beyond their expectations, although, it is said, he made use of an equivocation to effect his purpose. Failing to get a promise of the absolute remission of the tribute, he asked the king to grant him a stay of execution until luan. The king promised to grant this stay. Now luan means Monday; and so the king understood it, but it also means the Judgment Day, in which sense Moling understood[326] it, and insisted on the fulfilment of the promise in that sense. The king feared the saint, and moreover was unwilling to be deemed a pledge-breaker, so he was constrained to remit the tribute for ever. The remission, however, was a most unpopular act with his own northern subjects; and it is not unlikely that the story of the equivocation was invented by the king’s friends, who wished to please the saint, and yet to throw the odium of this unpopular measure on one who was much better able to bear it than Finnachta. Even the wise Adamnan is represented as counselling his royal master to assert the legal claims of the great Hy-Niall race to which he himself belonged; and he is said to have blamed the king for yielding so weakly to the Leinster saint. The remission was made about the year A.D. 693; and the cow-tax was never levied in Leinster afterwards.

St. Moling is said to have been a great scholar, and a great writer. More ancient Irish poems, several of which are still extant, have been ascribed to St. Moling than to any other of our Irish saints,[327] with the exception, perhaps, of Columcille. Some of these have reference to that Borromean Tribute of which we have already spoken; others purporting to be prophetical, give a list of the kings of Erin, their battles, victories, and death. In consequence of these and several other prophetical poems, St. Moling has been set down as one of the four great prophets of Erin. The others are St. Patrick, St. Columcille, and St. Berchan of Clonsast. One of Moling’s prophecies foretells the coming of the Anglo-Normans to Ireland, and the ‘conquest’ of the country by Henry II. Some of these poems are manifest forgeries written after the event. They were ascribed to St. Moling, because he was pre-eminently a holy man, who enjoyed in his own time the reputation of a prophet amongst all the people.

Keating had in his possession a work which he calls the Yellow Book of St. Moling, but which has since been unfortunately lost. Hence we know nothing of it beyond the name. It was probably begun by St. Moling and afterwards continued by his monastic successors as an authentic record of local and national events, like the Annals of Tighernach, or the Chronicon Scotorum at Clonmacnoise. Colgan observes that St. Moling had a great devotion for St. Kevin, and constantly invokes that saint in his poems and prophecies. He was probably privileged to see during his boyhood the venerable Kevin at Glendalough, and must have been greatly impressed by that saintly master. St. Moling died towards the close of the seventh century.

Notwithstanding its remoteness, the Danes frequently ravaged Glendalough during the ninth century; and again repeated their ravages during the tenth and following century. There could be no peace for the monks of St. Kevin whilst the fleets of foreigners were on the Boyne, the Liffey, and even at the mouth of the Bray River—if it be the Inner-na-mbarc referred to by the Four Masters in A.D. 836, as O’Donovan conjectures. Still the sanctuary retained at least to some extent its ancient fame even during these troubled times, for Cormac Mac Cullinnan before his death in A.D. 907, bequeathed to Glendalough an ounce of gold and an ounce of silver, as an offering to secure the prayers of the community. It contained ‘learned men’ and ‘anchorites,’ as we know, during this century, for the death of one of them is recorded by the Four Masters in A.D. 953 (recte 954); and the death of several other anchorites is noticed by the Masters in this same century. They were probably the same as the inclusi of whom we read later on—each of them living in his own little cell, or ‘kitchen,’ which was at once his house and his oratory. One of them was also what was called ‘Head of the Rule’ at Glendalough, and died in A.D. 965. The death of a lector or reader in theology is also noticed the previous year; both bore the surname of O’Manchan, and were probably members of the same family.

But it was not the Danes alone who wasted the abbey-lands and destroyed the sacred edifices. Native Irishmen now followed their bad example both at Glendalough and elsewhere. In A.D. 983, “the three sons of Cearbhall, son of Lorcan, plundered the termon, or abbey-lands of Coemghen; but the three were killed before night through the miracles of God and Coemghen.” No one can regret their fate; it was an example and a warning greatly needed in those rude and lawless days. Five times during the next thirty years St. Kevin’s sacred city was plundered and destroyed by the Danes;[328] yet it was still a venerated and much frequented shrine during the whole of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. In A.D. 1095 died the Brehon O’Manchan, Comarb of St. Kevin, and a most celebrated judge. He was doubtless a member of the same distinguished family, which had already given many abbots and anchorites to Glendalough.

Noble ladies, too, we find, used to go on the pilgrimage to Glendalough; for in A.D. 1098, Dearbhforgaill, daughter of Tadhg Mac Gillaphadraig, and mother of Murtogh and Tadgh O’Brian, died in pilgrimage at Glendalough. The same year Mac Maras Cairbreach, a noble priest and learned senior, died in the sacred vale; but whether on his pilgrimage or in his own monastery is not stated. In A.D. 1127, the abbot Gilla Comghall O’Toole was slain by the men of Fertuathal; he was doubtless a member of the same family as the illustrious Laurence O’Toole, the greatest glory of Glendalough after its founder, of whom we must give a more particular account, for he was the last canonized of the countless saints of ancient Erin.

The Four Masters in A.D. 1085 record the death of “Gilla na-Naomh Laighen (the Leinster-man), noble bishop of Gleann-da-locha, and afterwards head of the monks of Würzburg.” The celebrated monastery of Würzburg in Germany, called in Latin Herbipolis, was founded by St. Killian. There is still preserved in the library of its university a famous MS. called the Codex Paulinus, or Codex of the Epistles of St. Paul in Latin, with copious glosses, both marginal and interlinear, in the Irish language, which were largely made use of by Zeuss, in the composition of his Grammatica Celtica. This MS. is hardly of the time of St. Killian himself. Zeuss thinks it was written either by Marianus Scotus, or more probably brought from Ireland by one of the learned pilgrims, who crowded the Scoto-German monasteries at that time. He makes special reference to Gilla na-Naomh, Bishop of Glendaloch; and it may be that he was the writer of this Codex, which still proves to the learned world how carefully the Scriptures were studied in our Irish schools, and how the Irish language was cultivated by our native scholars during the ‘darkest’ of the Middle Ages.

CHAPTER XVIII—(continued).

It is fortunate that in the case of St. Laurence, or Lorcan O’Toole, we are not left to tradition or imagination to enable us to ascertain what manner of man he was. We have an accurate and authentic Life of the saint, rich in all details, and written by one who was in every way qualified for the task. The writer was a member of that community at Eu, in whose bosom St. Laurence found a home and a grave; and he must have had ample and authentic information at his disposal. For the Life was written shortly after the saint’s death; its author must have seen and probably conversed with Laurence himself; and, doubtless, he made the acquaintance of the clergy who accompanied him from Ireland to Normandy. Above all, he had at his command the official documents, which were transmitted from Dublin to Rouen, at the request of the Bishop and Chapter of that Cathedral, and which were drawn up by the Bishop of Kildare and the Prior of Christ’s Church by command of Henry de Loundres, Archbishop of Dublin, for the process of the saint’s canonization.

Laurence O’Toole, both by father and mother, came of the noblest stock of Leinster. His father, Murtough, was hereditary prince of the Hy-Murray, a race that inhabited the fertile lands of south-eastern Kildare (which still belongs to the diocese of Dublin), until they were driven into the mountains of Wicklow by the Normans. His mother was the daughter of O’Byrne, the ruler of north-eastern Kildare, who shared the same fate; for both were driven from the plains into the mountains, where they maintained a sturdy but turbulent independence, down to a period within the memory of men still living.

The young Lorcan was baptized at St. Brigid’s famous shrine in Kildare, by the hands of the bishop of that ancient see, who seems to have been in some way connected with the family of the saint. We need not dwell on the alleged prophecies of the saint’s future greatness—too often these prophecies were composed after the event. A few years at most after the birth of the child, Dermott M‘Murrough, of infamous memory, became king of Leinster, and, as Gerald Barry testifies, he was a tyrant from the beginning, a cruel oppressor of the nobles, a man whose hand was against every man, and who had every man’s hand against him. The father of the young Lorcan being suspected or defeated by the tyrant, was forced to give his youngest child as a hostage to M‘Murrough. Sometimes these hostages were treated with great cruelty; and if any violation of faith, real or imaginary, took place, were not unfrequently put to death with circumstances of the greatest atrocity. M‘Murrough was a savage, and treated the child savagely. He had him at the tender age of ten led away in bonds; he caused him to be sent into a desert, stony land, somewhere probably to the north of Ferns, and there the child was left almost without food, until he was nearly starved to death, and his clothes were reduced to rags; so that, as the author of his Life tells us, he had nothing to shelter him from the biting north winds of winter. It was the discipline of the Cross which sometime or other God prepares for those whom he destines for a high degree of sanctity, that they may thus learn the best of all lessons—the lesson of patient endurance at the foot of the Cross.

When his father heard of the sad plight to which his poor son was reduced—knowing that prayers would be fruitless with such a man—he fortunately made prisoners of twelve of M‘Murrough’s followers, and then gave the tyrant to understand that if his son were not released, he would take summary vengeance on the captives. The threat was effective; M‘Murrough could not afford to lose his followers. So he agreed to give up the boy to the Bishop of Glendalough on condition that his own followers were at once released.

It was fortunate for young Lorcan that the chances of war brought him to Glendalough, for it was the crisis of his life. His captivity was, after all, a blessing in disguise, since it ended in thus bringing him to the holy city of St. Kevin. In spite of the ravages of the Danes, and of other spoilers like Dermott M‘Murrough, the lamp of learning still burned brightly in the mountain valley, and the virtues of St. Kevin were still cultivated, at least to some extent by his monastic children. There were, it is true, from time to time burnings at Glendalough, and deeds of violence were perpetrated even under the shadow of its holy mountains. But the learning and holiness acquired by St. Laurence in its cloisters—for it was his only school—is the clearest proof that both sacred and profane studies were there cultivated in comparative peace, and that the churches of Glendalough were crowded with holy and learned monks until the Norman spoilers came, when it was made a desert, which afforded refuge only to the robber and the outlaw.

Young Lorcan was at once placed under the protection of the bishop; and when his father came to bring him home, the noble boy asked permission to remain for ever in the family of St. Kevin, and forego his hopes of an earthly and, in those days, a very brilliant inheritance. The father gladly consented; and thus, at the early age of twelve, young Lorcan was given over to God, and like Samuel, was brought up in the temple of the Lord, serving day and night before His altar. His whole time, like that of his young companions, was given to prayer and study. It was his highest privilege to be allowed to attend at the altar, to train his young voice to sing the praises of God with the monks in the choir, and prepare the requisites for the Holy Sacrifice, especially the spotless host, and the wine, and the limpid water from St. Kevin’s well. He was assiduous in attendance at all the lessons of the lectors, that is the readers in Divinity and Sacred Scriptures, who were attached to the monastic school, and delivered their lectures in a somewhat free and easy, but very effective, sort of way. In rainy weather they assembled in the church, or the abbot’s house, or the reading room; but when the sun shone the professor and monks strolled about, or sat down under the shade of St. Kevin’s yew, while the teacher expounded the sacred page, or read the lives of ancient saints, or went through the canons of the Church, explaining how the law was violated, how transgressors were punished, and how the truly repentant after condign penance were reconciled. It was not so elaborate a system as we have at present; but it was admirably suited to the wants of the time. It certainly produced great prelates and great saints; and beyond all doubt it was more healthy for soul and body to hear the Word of God explained in the bracing air of Glendalough, under the shadow of its majestic mountains, than to be cooped up in a dusty hall, where one could hardly ever catch a ray of the glorious sun struggling through the murky atmosphere.

Lorcan was a diligent and keen-witted scholar. He was, says the writer of his Life, “Fervens in audiendo, sagax in repetendo, prudens in discernendo, sollicitus audita tenaci memoriæ commendare.” No good quality of a perfect student was wanting. He was not merely an attentive but an eager listener—fervens in audiendo. He went carefully and wisely over what he had heard or read—sagax in repetendo. This improved his natural talents, and made him a youth of keen and penetrating judgment—prudens in discernendo—and the knowledge which he acquired he stored up, not in a confused heap, but with system and order, which helped to strengthen his retentive memory, and enable him to have his knowledge ready for use—sollicitus audita tenaci memoriæ commendare.

For thirteen years he spent his life in the service of God, in the improvement of his mind, and the acquisition of sacred knowledge. They were probably the happiest years of his life; his young heart, pure and free from care, was given to the only love that begets perfect happiness, the love and service of God. Then it came to pass that the abbot of Glendalough, the comarb of St. Kevin, died; and, young as he was, the unanimous voice of the clergy, and of the people, called for Lorcan as his successor. He was only twenty-five—too young, indeed, in ordinary circumstances to be placed at the head of a great community; but his virtues, his learning, and his prudence far exceeded the measure of his years, and so they placed him, reluctant as he was, at the head of the great establishment of St. Kevin, probably about the year A.D. 1153, when we read that the abbot Dunlaing Ua Cathail died.

We cannot stay to recount his wisdom, his zeal, and, above all, his great charity in his new post. The abbey lands were wide; the family of St. Kevin was very large; the duties of the abbot very onerous; but we find young Lorcan discharged all these duties with complete success. Above all, his charity to the poor was remarkable. A time of great scarcity had come upon the people in all that mountain region, and great numbers would, undoubtedly, have perished of cold and hunger, but the abbot found means to be generous to all—no appeal was made to him in vain; no one left the gates of the monastery hungry. When necessary he gave the scanty meal from his own table to feed the starving people. Perhaps it was that he was too profuse of the property of the monastery, or because in the common need he made all give a share to the poor, but it is certain that at this period in his own religious family there were false brethren who calumniated their abbot, whispering evil things against him. Yet he bore all with perfect patience, and took no measures to vindicate his own character, until his enemies, from very shame, were forced to confess that they did injustice to their blameless abbot.

Shortly after the see of Glendalough became vacant and the eyes of all were turned on Laurence as the most suitable person to assume the mitre. But the pious abbot this time absolutely refused; they made him a religious superior against his will; but he would not become bishop at any rate; and that for two very good reasons—first, because he had not yet attained the canonical age; and secondly, because in his humility he thought himself unable to bear so heavy a burden.

But Providence reserved him for greater things.

Shortly after the archiepiscopal See of Dublin became vacant by the death of Gregory in October, A.D. 1161. Next year the abbot of Glendalough was chosen to succeed to the vacant See, and was consecrated in Christ Church Cathedral by the Primate Gelasius, attended by several other prelates and abbots from various parts of the kingdom. The choice of Lorcan to fill the See of Dublin is a singular proof of the great esteem is which he was held by all classes of his countrymen, both clergy and laity. For the citizens of Dublin were mostly of Danish origin, and had small sympathy with the natives. Hitherto their prelates were either of foreign extraction, or Irishmen, who had been trained and educated in England. They were consecrated too by the Archbishops of Canterbury; and they invariably took an oath of obedience and subjection to the see of Canterbury.

But the election of Lorcan inaugurated a new era. He was Irish of the Irish; trained and educated at home, as far as we know, exclusively within the shadow of the Wicklow Mountains. He was consecrated by the Primate of Armagh, and of course he was neither asked, nor if asked, was he a man to promise obedience to the see of Canterbury, which certainly had no claim de jure to the obedience of any Irish prelate. Nor did any prelate after him consecrated for any Irish see promise or pay any such canonical obedience to any prelate except the Pope. So that in the person of Lorcan the Irish Church was finally emancipated from this dependence on the Primate of all England, which in after days, had it continued, might have been the means of causing the shipwreck of our country’s faith.

Laurence was consecrated Archbishop of Dublin—Glendalough was not yet united to the Archdiocese—in the year A.D. 1162. In the same year we find that there was a Synod of the Irish prelates held at Clane in the co. Kildare, at which twenty-six bishops and several abbots are said to have assembled for the reformation of abuses, and the enactment of salutary discipline. The Primate Gelasius presided; and it is highly probable that many of the same prelates assisted at the consecration of St. Laurence in Dublin.

At that time the city seems to have been greatly in need of some moral reformation; and the holy prelate at once girt up his loins for the difficult task.

He began with the clergy; for he knew that the people would readily follow their good example. He persuaded the secular clergy of the Cathedral Church to form themselves into a kind of religious community. With the sanction of the Pope they adopted the rule of life followed by the Regular Canons of Aroasia—a reform that had been introduced into the diocese of Arras in France some eighty years before. The Archbishop himself adopted the same rule of life, and became a living model of its perfect observance for all his clergy. We fortunately have accurate details regarding his manner of life at this period; and beyond all doubt it was, as the lessons read on his festival declare, a life of marvellous austerity.

Beneath his episcopal dress he wore the habit of a Canon Regular, but, unlike the others, next his skin he wore a coarse hair shirt night and day; and as if that was not enough to mortify his flesh, he had himself frequently scourged, often no less than three times in the day, by an attendant who knew how to keep the scourging secret. He dined in the same refectory with the other canons, and, as with St. Augustine and his clergy, whilst the body was refreshed with food, the spirit was nourished by spiritual reading. He was most abstemious too at all his meals, and never tasted meat. On Friday his only food was bread and water; and sometimes on that day he absolutely abstained from all food—feeding his soul, however, with meditation on the passion of Christ. Yet he was hospitable as became a great prelate, and had banquets rich and abundant prepared for his guests. He even pretended on these occasions to take a share of the good things provided for the strangers, and coloured his water with a little wine, lest his own abstinence might prevent them from fully enjoying the bountiful hospitality prepared for them.

He was assiduous in prayer, and before all things anxious to promote the beauty of God’s house, as well as the splendour and regularity of Divine worship. Here, too, the example of the holy prelate must have exercised a very powerful influence both on the clergy and on the people. We are told by the writer of his Life that he was a constant attendant at all the offices of the Church, when not visiting his diocese; and not content at presiding at the daily offices, he regularly got up at midnight to recite matins and lauds with his canons; and when they retired to rest after the office was completed, he generally remained behind in the choir, before the miraculous crucifix of Christ Church, sometimes standing, or sitting, or kneeling, but always praying; so that he often continued reciting the psaltery until the morning dawned, and then he would go out to the cemetery to say a prayer for the dead before retiring for a few hours’ brief repose. Yet in all things which might win popular favour or applause, he loved to hide even his good works, lest they might beget self-esteem or hypocrisy.

Such a life was sufficiently rigorous, but it was not enough for this man of God. His nephew Thomas, whom he greatly loved, became Abbot of Glendalough; and then the holy prelate having one in whom he could confide, used to retire to his beloved mountain valley at the approach of Lent, in order to give himself up to a forty days’ retreat in the desert. All the saints of God loved solitude, and longed to fly from the haunts of men. They seem to have been especially anxious to select for their place of retreat those secluded spots where the sights and sounds of nature might be most apt to raise their minds to God. Hence we find them in the islands of the great sea, or of some lonely lake; or they retired to the majestic solitude of some mountain valley, where no mean or sordid thoughts could cross their minds; nay, rather everything around them helped to raise their souls to heaven. It was in this spirit—the spirit of a noble generous soul that Laurence used to leave the city and go out to meet and commune with God in the solitude of the mountains of Wicklow. It was the same Spirit of God that brought Moses to Nebo, and Eliseus to Horeb. Therefore it was that St. Gall sought the inmost recesses of the Alps, and St. Kevin the deepest valleys of the Wicklow mountains. So Laurence, like another Kevin, took up his abode not with his nephew in the monastery at the bottom of the valley, but in the bosom of the hills—in the very cave where St. Kevin himself spent his earliest penitential years. There St. Laurence dwelt in the grotto in the face of Lugduff, under the mountain’s brow, overlooking the gloomy lake, to which access could be gained only by a boat, or by a ladder planted in the lake itself. Twice a week his nephew brought him a little bread and water to support life, and ascertained his wishes or commands in all things concerning the government of the diocese. If urgent business called him, he went at once from his retreat; but this rarely happened. Whilst there he saw no one but his nephew. His bed was the rock; his canopy the sky; his lamps the midnight stars that shone above the summit of Comaderry mountain. He was there in cold and hunger, in storm and sunshine, alone all the day and all the dreary night. Yet he was perfectly happy, for he lived with God. The saints are not alone in these solitudes, they are watched by angels; the light of heaven is around them; the glow of perfect love is in their hearts; God speaks to them in all the voices of the mountains, and they see Him in all the majestic sights before their eyes. He spoke by day and night to Laurence, as He spoke to holy Job of old.

But what useful purpose does this extreme austerity serve? We can only answer very briefly that it serves two things—first, it serves to emancipate and ennoble the soul in its conflict with the flesh; second, it serves to assimilate us with Christ crucified. We with our selfish hearts, our sordid ungenerous souls, cannot understand the saints of God; we cannot realize how God speaks to them, and comforts them, and feeds them like the ravens in the wilderness. Yet this bishop was a man like ourselves, a man whose life was cast on evil days, and who lived in the midst of a wicked and perverse generation.

Yes, the prelate was a Saint and an Apostle; but the people were sensual and wicked; they would not hearken to his word, nor turn away from their evil courses. Danish Dublin at this time was not a model city, nor a truly Christian city. It was still, in many ways, half pagan; or if they had faith, they certainly had not works. The Archbishop was sorely grieved; he forewarned them, like another Jeremias, of the wrath to come. He told them, what even human sagacity might perceive, that every kingdom divided against itself must fall; that an evil day was in store for them, as well as for the wicked and perverse generation that was over all the land. God had sent them prophets, and they would not hearken; apostles, but they would not be converted. “So the day is at hand, and thy house will be laid desolate.” It was even at their doors—a day of wrath and vengeance—and yet a day of justice and mercy, because their bitter chastisement was yet their salvation.

Shortly after the arrival of the Norman freebooters in the year A.D. 1169, Dermott M‘Murrough and Maurice Fitzgerald made their first attack on Dublin. On this occasion the citizens kept within their gates, and the enemy was not strong enough to take the city. But the midnight sky was red with the glare of burning homesteads through all the valley of the Liffey; and when the plunderers departed, scarcely a living thing survived in all that fertile region.

Next year the attack was renewed in force, and this time it was directed against the city itself. The citizens had great reason to fear the vengeance of M‘Murrough, for they had put his father to a cruel death in the midst of their city, and had shamefully buried him with a dog. Now M‘Murrough, with the Normans led on by Strongbow in person, was thundering at their gates. The city, too, was badly prepared for a siege, and there were traitors within the walls; so the citizens resolved to make the best terms they could, and surrender the city. The Archbishop was asked to negotiate the terms of surrender; but even whilst he and the Earl were in conference outside the walls of the city, Milo de Cogan, and some of the more lawless spirits, burst over the walls, and attacked the town. They burned, robbed, and slaughtered as usual, so that the streets were filled with the dead and dying. Then it was that St. Laurence proved himself a true pastor. Rushing from the false parley, he entered the city, and snatched from the brutal soldiers the palpitating bodies of their victims. A hundred times he interposed his own body to ward off the fatal stroke from others. He went about through the slippery streets in his episcopal robes, with the cross in his hands, imploring the merciless foe for Christ’s sake to stop the horrid carnage; and when he could do no more, he gave absolution to the dying, and helped to bury the heaps of dead. It was a fearful foretaste of what his native land was destined to endure in the future.

But the Archbishop was not only a true pastor, but a true patriot. He knew that the first adventurers were simply robbers, some of whom were afterwards imprisoned for daring to effect a hostile landing in Ireland, without the licence of the king, at the invitation of a traitor. So he stimulated the slothful king, Rory O’Connor, to action; he implored the native princes to give up for a while their insane divisions, to unite against the common foe, and come to the aid of the Capital. These efforts were partially successful. Some thirty thousand Irish soldiers under the supreme command of Roderick himself beleagured the city from Dalkey to Clontarf, whilst the ships of Hasculf the Dane crowded the river, and watched the river-gate. It was the supreme moment of Ireland’s destiny. Had the Irish been soldiers, or even men, they might have annihilated their foes. But they were neither. After a two months’ siege, in which the garrison was reduced to the verge of starvation, Milo de Cogan made a desperate sally with a few hundred soldiers, and routed the hosts of the Irish, almost with a shout, as boys frighten away the flocks of birds from the fields in spring.

The Archbishop doubtless saw clearly enough from what he witnessed on that occasion, that the Irish soldiers had no discipline, that their leaders had no union amongst themselves, and that such a heap of uncementing sand, as the event proved, would have no chance of withstanding the mail-clad warriors, who were victorious on every battlefield in Europe. So when the king himself came over towards the close of A.D. 1171, Laurence O’Toole, with the rest of the Irish prelates, followed the example of the kings of the West, and South, and East, who had all submitted to Henry without striking a blow. Herein, too, he proved himself a true patriot, although submission must have cost him a bitter pang. He had seen enough to prove that resistance was utterly hopeless, and that his duty to God and to the people was to yield to a power which he could not oppose. So we find his name amongst the prelates who assembled at Cashel in A.D. 1171, or the beginning of A.D. 1172, to enact such disciplinary laws as the deplorable state of the times had rendered imperatively necessary for the reformation of morality and the reform of discipline. From the Pope’s reply to the Synodical letter of this Council we can readily infer, what indeed we might naturally expect from the disturbed state of the times, that very grave abuses prevailed at this period in various parts of the country—abuses which it was a blessing to have reformed almost at any cost.

Yet the great Archbishop was devotedly loyal to his own sovereign, Rory O’Connor, and continued to be faithful to him to the end, even when he became a crownless king, forsaken by his own subjects, and despised and imprisoned by his own sons. Indeed it is not too much to say that Laurence lost his life in the service of that worthless king, whose misfortunes he had done so much to alleviate.

In A.D. 1175 Rory O’Connor finally and formally gave up all claims to the kingdom of Ireland, and was content to accept his own hereditary kingdom of Connaught as a fief from the English monarch. The treaty is still extant; and we find the name of Laurencius Dublinensis as Chancellor for the unfortunate King of Connaught. He even went over to London in person in company with the Archbishop of Tuam, and the Abbot of St. Brendan’s, Clonfert, to negotiate the treaty for his old and beloved monarch. Such fidelity to fallen princes is rare, and is highly honourable to the great prelate of Dublin.

Towards the end of the year A.D. 1178 Alexander III. convoked for the first Sunday of the following Lent a General Council to meet in Rome, in order to heal the deplorable wounds which the Church had received from a schism of some twenty years’ standing. The Letters of Convocation did not arrive in Ireland until near Christmas; the journey to Rome was toilsome and perilous, especially in the winter season; yet the good Archbishop at once prepared to obey the voice of the Pope as the voice of God. He started immediately after Christmas, and crossing over to England was, with the Irish prelates, his companions, very rudely treated by the king. Before they were allowed to cross to France the jealous tyrant compelled them to swear that during their stay in Rome they would do nothing derogatory to the dignity of the English crown. But in spite of every obstacle they succeeded in making their way to Rome, and were present at all the sessions of the Council. It is a proud thing to find the names of six Irish prelates amongst the signatories of that great Council—a larger number than came from England and Scotland together—and at their head stands the name of Laurence, Archbishop of Dublin.

But Laurence did more than attend the sessions of the Council. He opened the eyes of the Pope to the true state of affairs in Ireland, and not only secured many privileges for his own Church in Dublin, but also insisted on the Pope recognising and safeguarding the liberty and independence of the Church in Ireland. Unfortunately our information on this question is very scanty. However we are inclined to think that, when it is said St. Laurence secured the liberty of the Church in Ireland, it means not only that, like Thomas à Becket, he took measures to protect it against the encroachments of the civil power, but what was at least of equal importance, he preserved it from all dependence on the See of Canterbury. It was only two years before in A.D. 1177 that the Scottish prelates and abbots were forced to swear obedience to the Archbishop of York as their metropolitan. The same crafty policy would no doubt be also attempted in Ireland; and although we cannot prove it, we are convinced in our own mind that it is to St. Laurence O’Toole we owe the spiritual independence of the Catholic Church in Ireland.

The Pope conceived a very strong regard for St. Laurence; he conferred on him the high and special honour of Apostolic Legate in Ireland; and the independence of the Irish Church, having thus been once formally recognised in Rome, could not afterwards be easily undermined. But we must hasten to the end. Laurence came home to Ireland; his stay, however, was very brief, when he was again compelled to travel to England in the interest of Rory O’Connor, the discrowned king. Several abortive attempts were made to get rid of the English influence in the West of Ireland; Rory, or at least his sons, were implicated in these designs, and Henry, who only wanted an excuse, threatened to depose the old king, and confiscate all his territories to the Crown. Rory was alarmed, and what was worse, he was helpless. His own sons had turned against him; so in his misery he implored the Archbishop to be his mediator with the king. He had no one else to rely on, and the Archbishop did not disappoint him. Again he left the shores of Ireland on a mission of charity; and doubtless his eyes were not dry as he gazed on the lessening summits of the far-off Wicklow mountains, and thought of the many happy days he had spent in the wild solitude of his beloved Glendalough. When he arrived in England Henry could not, or would not, see him; moreover, he forbade the prelate to return again to Ireland, and he himself sailed away to Normandy. For three weeks the Archbishop was kept as a sort of prisoner in the monastery of Abingdon, when, revolving to dare all in order to accomplish his purpose, he made up his mind to find out the king beyond the Channel. He embarked at Dover; but a fever had already laid hold of him, so that when he landed, he was unable to travel. He struggled onward, however, for a little until he came to the brow of the hill which overlooks the church and monastery at the little town of Augum or Eu, on the borders of Normandy. Enquiring the name of the place, he learned that it was the Church of the Canons Regular of St. Victor, a branch closely allied to his own. Thereupon he cried out—“Haec requies mea in aeternum, hic habitabo quoniam elegi cam.”

Arriving at the monastery, he first paid a visit to the church, and after spending some time in fervent prayer before the altar, he was carried to the hospice. The scene that followed is touching in the extreme, and is taken exactly from the Latin Life written by a brother of the Order. After reposing a little he sent for the Abbot Osbert, and made his confession with great sorrow and humility. But still his mind was not easy; for the task for which he crossed the sea was unaccomplished, and he was no longer able to plead in person before the king. Then he called one of his attendant clerics, David by name, the tutor of Rory’s son, who was to be given as a hostage to Henry for his father’s loyalty. “Go,” said he to David, “find out King Henry, tell him I am dying, and ask him in God’s name to forgive the King of Connaught, and receive him again into favour.” David bowed his head, and set out to find the king. He was favourably received, for his story made a deep impression on the king, whose hard heart was softened by the sufferings of the Archbishop in the cause of his sovereign. He granted the boon, and pledged his royal word that he would receive Rory again into favour. So David, after four days, returned to the dying prelate, who anxiously awaited his arrival, and told of his success. Then St. Laurence called David to him, made him sit close by his side, for he was almost unable to speak, and laid his head upon the bosom of the priest to imply that he was now satisfied, and that he would die in peace.

Shortly after, his mind being now at ease, he received the Viaticum with the greatest devotion, and then begged to be anointed. Some one of the bystanders suggested that now, as he had received all the sacraments, it were well if the Archbishop made his will. Raising his eyes to heaven he made use of these solemn and memorable words:—“I declare before God that I have not one penny under the sun to dispose of—not one penny”—he was a religious, a Canon Regular; he professed poverty and he kept his vow. Whatever he possessed he gave to the poor; indeed he never possessed anything at all. No sooner was it got than it was gone again. Happy the priest who at his dying hour can make the same declaration with the same truth. Then his thoughts wandered back to his native land—that native land which he loved so wisely and so well, which he tried in vain to save, and which he now saw torn with internal dissensions and trampled under foot by foreign foes—and he dying far away, and leaving no one behind him to guide his people or heal his country’s wounds. These bitter thoughts sank deep into his heart; and in anguish of mind he exclaimed—alas! we know how prophetically—“Heu popule stulte et insipiens, quid jam facturus es—quis sanabit aversiones tuas? Quis medebitur tui?” Ah, foolish and misguided people, what will now become of thee? Who will cure thy dissensions? Who will heal thy wounds? He longed to be dissolved and to be with Christ; yet for the sake of his perishing flock he would still remain. But the end was now at hand. With dim eyes he kept reading a MS. copy of the Seven Penitential Psalms which he had brought to him; and when he could read no more, orally or mentally, about twelve o’clock on Friday, the 14th of November, the glorious Confessor closed his eyes in a peaceful, happy death.

The body of the holy Confessor was buried in presence of Cardinal Alexis, the Papal Legate of Scotland. But it remained in its place of burial only four years and six months, when the many wondrous miracles wrought at his tomb caused the remains of St. Laurence to be transferred, and with great solemnity enclosed in a crystal case before the high altar of the church.

Shortly after, at the urgent request of the Canons Regular and the faithful of Eu, a petition for the canonization of the holy servant of God was sent to Rome by the Archbishop and Chapter of Rouen, to which diocese the church of Eu belongs. The Pope, Honorius III., ordered the usual investigation to be made by the ecclesiastical authorities. As St. Laurence came from Ireland shortly before his death, it became necessary to have an official report concerning the life of St. Laurence from that country. The task was committed by the Pope to Henry de Loundres, Archbishop of Dublin; but he being absent in England on affairs of State, commissioned the Bishop of Kildare and the Prior of Christ’s Church to collect the necessary depositions and transmit them to Rome. After the usual process with legal proof of the practice of heroic virtues during life and miracles after death, Honorius III., in the tenth year of his pontificate, in a Bull issued from Reate, solemnly enrolled St. Laurence O’Toole amongst the canonized saints of the Church. It was the year of our Lord A.D. 1225 that the latest of our saints was thus formally canonized.

It is the greatest glory of the School of Glendalough to have produced such a man—so learned, so holy, so faithful to his king and to his country in the hour of trial. When shall we see his like again? And who will deny that the Church which produced such men as St. Laurence and St. Malachy was sound at the core in spite of many faults and abuses?

After his death the School and Monastery of Glendalough gradually fell into decay, until at length the holy valley of St. Kevin became little better than a nest of robbers and murderers.