Story of an Anchorite.
Among the many celebrated ruins of Abbeys in Ireland, is that of Foune, or Fowne, in the county of Westmeath, Leinster. This Abbey is situated on the north-side of the hill or rising ground, which interposes between it and Lough Larne. It was a Priory of Canons, built by St. Fechin, about the year 630. For although the oldest and most authentic Irish records were written between the tenth and twelfth centuries, yet some of them go back, with some consistency, as far as the Christian era; but there is no evidence that the Irish had the use of letters before the middle of the fifth century, when Christianity and Christian literature were introduced by St. Patrick. The new faith did not flourish till a century later, when St. Columba erected monasteries. The Abbey presents a large pile of simple, unadorned masonry. The chapel is still in a tolerable state of preservation, so is also the chapel tower. The valley in which this Abbey is placed must, in the time of its prosperity, have been a delightful retreat. The outline is still good, and nothing is wanting but a little more wood to render it an attractive spot in modern days.
The town is said to have been, anciently, a University of Literature, and the name signifies in the Irish tongue, “the Town of Books:” and the above-mentioned lake (Lough Larne) “the Lake of Learning.” This town was not only the mart of learning, but of devotion—there being in it the ruins of no less than three parish churches; and here lived a famous anchorite, of whom Sir Henry Piers—who wrote an amusing description of the county of Westmeath—gives the following account:—
“This religious person, in his extremity, maketh a vow never to go out of his doors all his life-time, and accordingly here he remains pent up all his days; every day he sayeth mass in the chapel, which also is part of, nay, almost all his dwelling-house—for there are no more houses, but a very small castle, wherein a tall man can hardly stretch himself at length if he be laid down on the floor, nor is there any passage into the castle but through the chapel. He hath servants that attend him at his call in an out-house, but none lieth within the church but himself. He is said, by the natives—who hold him in great veneration for his sanctity—every day to dig, or rather scrape—for he useth no other tools but his nails—a portion of his grave, being esteemed of so great holiness—as if purity and sanctity were entailed on his cell; he is certainly visited by those of the Romish religion who aim at being esteemed more devout than the ordinary amongst them.
“Every visitant, at his departure, leaveth his offering, or as they phrase it, ‘devotion,’ on his altar; but he relieth not on this only for a maintenance, but hath those to bring him in the devotions of those whose piety is not so fervent as to invite them to do the office in person; these are called his ‘proctors,’ who range all the counties in Ireland to beg for him, whom they call the ‘holy man in the stone.’ Corn, geese, turkeys, hens, sheep, money, and whatnot, nothing comes amiss, and nowhere do they fail altogether, but something is had, insomuch, that if his ‘proctors’ deal truthfully, nay, if they return him but a tenth part of what is given for him, he may doubtless fare as well as any priest of them all. The only recreation this poor prisoner is capable of, is, to walk on his terrace, built over the cell where he lies, if he may be said to walk, who cannot in one time stretch forth his legs four times.”
Such, my young friends, is the story of an Anchorite. It is well for us that we live in times when such nonsense is not tolerated. An attempt was made, some years ago, by a poor half-witted creature, called the “Shottisham Angel,” to revive this kind of imposture among credulous persons, but timely exposure frustrated the attempt.
