Life of Saint Columba Part 5

THE visitation of the Irish monasteries completed, Columba returned to Iona. But it was no longer as an exile that he left the sh.o.r.es of Erin.

This time it was to "Hy of his love, and Hy of his heart" that he was bound--to the country that had become dear to him as the land of his adoption and of his mission; where he had suffered and striven for his Master's sake, and where his work had been blessed beyond all that he had hoped or dreamed.

It is especially during the last few years of Columba's life on earth that we can see how the natural fire and arrogance of his nature had been gradually transformed into the gentleness and charity of Christ.

It was not without many a struggle that the transformation took place; but Columbcille was a man of great heart and of determined will; what he set himself to do was sure to be done. Now he had set himself--with G.o.d's grace--to self-conquest, and the work, though not to be completed in a day nor yet in a year, was at last by dint of prayer and patience gloriously achieved. The gentleness of a naturally strong and fiery temperament won--so to speak--at the sword's point, is always an extraordinary force in the world, and we find the power of Columba over his fellow-men and his influence with them for good increasing every year.

St. Fintan, one of the Saint's first companions in Iona, was asked once towards the end of Columba's life to describe him to one who had heard much of his holiness, but who did not know him.

"He is a king amongst kings," answered Fintan, "a sage amongst wise men, a monk amongst monks. He is poor with G.o.d's poor; a mourner with those who weep, and joyful with those who rejoice. Yet amidst all the gifts of nature and of grace that have been so liberally showered on him by G.o.d, the true humility of Christ is as royally rooted in his heart as if it were its natural home."

He was the father, the brother and the friend of all who were in want or distress; the dauntless champion of the oppressed and of the weak, the avenger of all who suffered wrong. His prayers and blessing were sought by all the navigators of the stormy seas of the Hebrides as a defence against the dangers of the deep; while during his journeys on the mainland the people would bring out their sick and lay them in his path, that they might touch the hem of his cloak or receive his benediction as he pa.s.sed. Their simple faith was not in vain: many were the miraculous cures wrought by the Saint, whose prayers were as powerful with G.o.d as those of St. Peter and St. John, and with whom he might have said "silver and gold I have none, but what I have I give thee."

He would visit rich and poor alike, and it was often in the houses of the latter that he met with the truest hospitality. He would find out with gentle tact what were the means of his humble hosts, and plan ways of increasing their little store. Once when he was pa.s.sing through Lochaber on his way to visit King Bruidh in his royal palace, he was offered a lodging in the house of a poor peasant and kindly entertained with the best that the poverty of the house could furnish. In the morning when the little Highland cows of his host were being driven out to pasture, Columbcille blessed them, and foretold that they would increase until in course of time they would number five hundred, and that the blessing of a grateful traveller would rest upon the man and his family.

Columba took an observant interest in all the things of nature, and was often able to advise the peasants how to improve the simple methods of farming, hunting, and fishing on which their daily food depended. On one occasion he profited by the hospitality shown to him by a rich Highland chief to put an end to a deadly feud which in true Highland fashion had existed for many years between his host and one of his neighbours. The enemies were reconciled, and both became fast friends of the peacemaker.

Tender-hearted as Columba was to all who were in sorrow and distress, to none did his ready sympathy extend more fully than to those who were exiles from their native land, for he remembered the early days of his own sojourn in Iona. One of his special friends was a Pictish chief of n.o.ble birth who had received him on the occasion of his first missionary journey to Caledonia and treated him with generous hospitality. Some time after he fell into disgrace and was banished from the country. Columba appealed in his favour to Feradagh, the chief of the island of Islay, whom he begged to give shelter and protection to the exile, while he tried what his influence could do with the Pictish king to obtain his friend's recall. Feradagh, after promising hospitality to the fugitive, murdered him treacherously for the sake of his possessions. The news was brought to Columbcille, who cried out in indignation that the punishment of G.o.d would overtake the traitor before he had tasted of the flesh of the boars that he was fattening for his table.

Feradagh laughed at the threat but was not a little uneasy, for he had heard of the strange way in which Columba's prophecies were wont to come true. He had a boar killed without loss of time and roasted, in order to rea.s.sure himself that this time at least the Saint had been wrong. As he sat down to table, he fell down from his seat and died, to the fear and consternation of his followers.

A certain chief named Donnell, who with his sons and followers feared neither G.o.d nor man, was the terror of all the neighbouring country.

Although he could claim kinship with the King of Dalriada, Columba excommunicated him for his deeds of violence, and he and his family vowed vengeance on the Saint. Taking advantage of a journey that Columba was making to a neighbouring island with only one or two companions, one of the sons of Donnell resolved to murder him as he slept. But one of Columbcille's companions, a monk named Finn Lugh, was beset that night with an unaccountable fear for the safety of his holy abbot, and begged him to lend him his cowl, in which he wrapped himself and lay down to sleep. In the dead of night the a.s.sa.s.sin crept upon the little band of travellers, and, seeking out the monk who wore the abbot's cowl, stabbed him, and fled to a place of safety. But the garment of the Saint protected the man who was ready to give his life for his master, and Finn Lugh escaped without a wound.

Another lawless member of the same family fell upon and robbed a man who lived upon the rocky peninsula of Ardnamurchan, and had constantly shown hospitality to Columba on his journeys. The blessing of the Saint had brought him good fortune, and his little patrimony had increased year by year. The people, in honour of the affection shown him by the holy abbot, called him "Columbain" or "the friend of Columba." As the robber was returning, laden with the spoils of the poor man, to the boat that was awaiting him at the water's edge, he met Columba himself, whom he had supposed to be safely distant at Iona. The Saint reproved him sternly for his crimes, and bade him restore the goods that he had stolen. The robber chief maintained a grim silence until he was safely in his boat and well out from the sh.o.r.e. Then he stood up, and bursting into a storm of insults and evil words, shouted defiance and derision at Columbcille as long as his voice could be heard. The oppression of the helpless never failed to rouse Columba's wrath. He strode out into the water after the retreating boat, and, raising his arms to heaven, prayed that justice might be done on the robber. Then returning quietly to his companions he said to them, "That wicked man who despises Christ in His poor will return no more to these sh.o.r.es. The cup of his iniquity is full." Shortly afterwards a storm arose, and the boat with all that were in it sank like a stone between Mull and Colonsay.

But it was not only to the poor and the oppressed that Columba's charity was shown. We find him at the Court of King Aidan, holding his young son Hector "the Blond" in his arms and praying that his life might be as fair as his features. To the n.o.bles who kept the laws of G.o.d he was as devoted a friend as he was a steadfast opponent of those who outraged them. To the penitent he was full of mercy and hope, and many sinners were persuaded by his eloquence and power to forsake their evil ways.

But nowhere was his charity more clearly shown than with his own community at Iona. He foresaw the needs of all, and watched over his spiritual sons with a fatherly love and care. During one of the last summers of his life when the monks were coming back in the evening after a day of harvesting, they stopped short at a little distance from the monastery to enjoy the sense of peace and consolation that seemed to come to meet them as they approached their home.

"How is it," asked one of the younger brethren, "that at this spot every night when we return from our daily labours, our hearts rejoice, our burdens grow light, and the very perfume of heaven seems borne to us on the breeze?"

"I will tell you," said Baithen, the beloved friend and successor of Columba. "Our saintly abbot, whose heart is with us in our work, is praying for us and longing for our safe return. His heart is heavy with our weariness, and, having no longer the strength to come in the body to meet us and help us with our burdens, he sends forth the blessing and the prayer of his soul to refresh and console us on our way."

Not only his fellow-men but all the creatures of G.o.d were dear to Columba for their Creator's sake. One day he bade a certain monk at Iona go down to the seash.o.r.e and watch.

"For," said the Saint, "ere the night falls a weary guest will arrive to us from Ireland, faint and ready to die. Succour her and tend her carefully for three days, and when she is rested and refreshed let her go, that she may return once more to her native land." The guest was a poor storm-driven crane which fell on the sh.o.r.e exhausted at the brother's feet. He bore it tenderly to the monastery and cared for it as his master had bidden. In the evening Columba met the monk and blessed him for his compa.s.sion to the weary stranger; and, as he had foretold, on the third day, strengthened and refreshed the bird took its flight back to Erin.

CHAPTER X

THE GIFT OF VISION

WE have already seen how it was often given to St. Columba to know of events that were happening far away from the place where he might be, and how by his gift of prophecy he could sometimes foretell what would come to pa.s.s in the future. As he grew older it seemed to those who knew him intimately that these flashes of supernatural insight became more frequent, and that the things of the next world were growing daily more familiar to him as the time of his earthly pilgrimage drew to an end. Many instances of this have been recorded by his biographers.

One morning at Iona when the Ma.s.s was about to be celebrated, Columba sent word to the priest whose turn it was to offer the Holy Sacrifice that day, to do it in honour of the glorious birthday of St. Brendan.

The monk could not understand his abbot's behest as no word had reached Iona of the holy Brendan's death. Columba then told him that during the night he had seen in a vision the soul of Brendan ascending to heaven surrounded by a great company of rejoicing angels; he knew therefore that he had entered into his rest.

On another occasion he ordered that the Ma.s.s for the feast of a bishop should be sung. Now there was no feast marked in the calendar for that day, and the monks asked their holy abbot to tell them the name of the bishop in whose honour the Holy Mysteries were to be celebrated.

"Last night," he replied, "I saw the soul of Columban, the Bishop of Leinster, in heaven, surrounded with the glory of the blessed; it is in his honour that we must offer the Holy Sacrifice to-day."

Columba had a deep love and reverence for all honest labour done for G.o.d. One night he told his monks that he had just seen entering into heaven the soul of a blacksmith whom he had known long ago in Ireland.

"He has bought eternal life," he said, "with the labours of the earthly. He was charitable and gave of his poverty to the poor, therefore the Lord of the Poor has rewarded him."

In the course of his travels in the Highlands he met one day in a lonely gorge a countryman in great distress. He was returning from a journey, and had heard that during his absence from home, a band of Saxon marauders had laid waste his little farm and burnt his house to the ground. He was in an anguish of fear lest his wife and children should have perished. Columba comforted him with kind words.

"Go in peace, my good man," he said, "your cattle and all your possessions have, it is true, been carried off by the robbers; but G.o.d has been merciful. Your dear little family is safe; go, for your loved ones are waiting for you, and comfort their sorrowing hearts."

Again, a year after the attempt had been made to murder Columba and the monk Finn Lugh had saved his life, the Saint asked his companion if he remembered the occurrence.

"It is just a year ago to-day," he said, "since Donnell tried to murder me, and our dear Finn Lugh would have given his life for mine. At this very moment the would-be murderer has been struck down by an enemy in punishment for his evil deeds."

One of the Saxon converts of the Saint had joined the community at Iona, and had been given charge of the bakehouse. Columba would often go to encourage him in his labours and to speak to him of the things of G.o.d. One day the Saxon saw him suddenly raise his eyes to heaven and join his hands in prayer. "Happy, happy woman," he cried, "to whom it is given to enter into the heavenly kingdom, carried by the hands of the angels."

A year afterwards when speaking to the same man, he said to him, "Do you remember the woman whose soul I saw a year ago ascending into heaven? I see her now coming to fetch the soul of her husband who is just dead. She is fighting with her prayers for that beloved soul against the powers of evil, and the angels are praying with her. See!

she conquers, she bears him off, for he has led a good and upright life, and the two who loved each other so dearly on this earth are united for ever in the joy and glory of heaven."

Columbcille seems indeed to have had some such intimation from G.o.d of the death of the greater number of his friends; a vision of the glory of that celestial country into which he was himself soon to enter, and after which he sighed with such ardent longing. If the angels had been with him in his youth, much more did they surround him in his later years.

Many stories are told of his celestial visions as he prayed in the forests of Skye, dear to him for their loneliness and silence. One dy, when he was at Iona he went out, giving orders that no one was to follow him. He was going to pray, he said, on a little hill to the west of Iona, which was one of his favourite retreats. One young brother, more curious than the rest, had heard strange tales about the holy abbot, and followed him carefully from afar to see what was going to happen. When he had come within a short distance of the place of prayer, he saw the Saint standing with arms raised to heaven, surrounded by a troop of white-robed angels. The young monk, trembling lest he should be discovered, made his way back to the monastery as quickly as he could.

When Columba rose during the night as was his habit to kneel in prayer on the cold floor of his cell, his heavenly visitors would throng around him, mingling their praise with his. It was not surprising that the things of heaven should be so near to one who cared so little for the things of earth. He would go out on a winter's night, says his biographer, and stand in the waters of an icy stream during the time it took him to recite the Psalter, that he might obtain grace by his sufferings for the souls of the obstinate sinners who refused to amend their lives. One day when he was praying in a lonely spot, a poor woman came in sight gathering wild herbs and nettles. Columba spoke to her and asked her what she was doing.

"I am gathering herbs for food," she replied, "for I have but one cow and it gives no milk; the poor must live as they can." Columba reproached himself bitterly that this poor woman should fare worse than he did. "We seek to win heaven," he cried, "by our austerities, and this poor woman, who is under no such obligation, outdoes us."

Henceforward he declared he would make his meal of the wild herbs and nettles that he had seen her gathering, and gave strict orders that nothing else should be served to him. He even reproved Baithen, whom he so dearly loved, with unwonted severity, because, unable to bear the sight of his abbot's wretched fare, he had put a little piece of b.u.t.ter into the pot in which it was being cooked.

The heavenly light that the holy Brendan had seen surrounding Columba on that memorable day at Teilte was now frequently beheld by his companions. At night it could be seen shining through the c.h.i.n.ks in the rough door of his little cell when all was in darkness, and the silence of the night was only broken by the voice of the holy abbot praying and singing the praises of G.o.d.

One winter's night, one of the younger brethren had remained in the church to pray after all had gone to rest. At midnight the door opened softly and Columba entered. A glory of golden light came with him, illuminating the church from wall to wall and from floor to roof. The little chapel where the brother knelt was flooded with the strange radiance and his soul was filled with a heavenly consolation. Columba knelt for many hours in prayer, and still the heavenly light shone round him as he prayed; while the brother watched him awestruck, scarcely daring to move for fear of being heard. The next day he was sent for by the abbot, who blessed him and gently bade him say nothing of what he had seen during the night.

Two of his religious, Baithen the beloved, and Diarmaid his faithful attendant, who were often in his cell to help him with his work and to carry out his instructions, noticed one day a sudden ray of joy shining from their master's eyes. A moment later the joyful expression gave place to one of intense sadness, and they begged Columba to reveal to them what it was that caused him grief.

"My children," said the Saint, "it is twenty years to-day since I first set foot in Caledonia. Earnestly I have been beseeching our Heavenly Father to bring my days of exile to an end, and to receive me into the heavenly country after which our hearts must ever yearn. It seemed to me that G.o.d had heard my prayer, and that I already saw the holy angels coming to bear my soul to its eternal Home, when suddenly they faded from my sight, and I saw them no more. It has been revealed to me that by reason of the prayers of those who love me on earth, the time of my sojourning has been prolonged. Therefore am I sad, beloved of my heart, because four long years must elapse before those heavenly messengers return. Then they will come once more and I shall depart with them to rejoice for ever in the presence of my G.o.d."

CHAPTER XI

THE LIGHT ETERNAL

IT was towards the end of May, when the late northern springtime was casting its veil of beauty over the rugged islands of the Hebrides, that Columbcille knew that the time of his departure was at hand. He bade his faithful attendant Diarmaid harness the oxen into the rude wooden cart of the monastery, and taking his seat in it set out for the fields that lay to the west of the island where all the monks were working. At the sight of the abbot in his humble chariot they left their work and crowded round him, and the old man addressed them tenderly with touching words of affection.

"A month ago," he said, "I had a great desire to depart from this earth, that I might keep the happy festival of Easter in heaven; but, unwilling to cast a gloom over your joy at that glad time, I was content to remain with you a little longer. But now the time of my earthly pilgrimage draws near its end." At these words the monks broke into bitter weeping, for the thought of losing their beloved father was more than they could bear, and Columba tried to comfort them. Then standing erect in the waggon he raised his hands and blessed the island, the monastery and all its inhabitants.

A few days later, leaning on Diarmaid's arm, he went to the barn and rejoiced to see the great heaps of corn laid up for the winter. "It is a comfort to me to know," he said, "that when I am no longer there my children will not go hungry. For this year at least there is plentiful provision."

"Why do you break our hearts, dear Father, in this sweet season of the year," said Diarmaid, "by speaking so often of your departure from us?