The copies of the Gospels and of the sacred writings which had been used by the saints of Erin were often preserved by their successors enclosed in cases of yew, or some wood equally durable. Some of these deeply-interesting evidences of Irish piety and learning have come down to us, and are to be seen in the collection of the Royal Irish Accademy at Dublin. One of them, the Caah, is a box about nine inches long and eight broad, formed of brass plates riveted together, and ornamented with gems and chasings of gold and silver. It contains a rude wooden box enclosing a copy of the ancient Vulgate translation of the Psalms in Latin, written on vellum, and, it is believed, by the hand of Saint Columbkille, “the Apostle of the Picts.” It seems to have been handed down in the O’Donnell family, to which the great saint belonged.
Another most interesting relic, also in the collection of the Academy, is the Domnach Airgid, which contains, beyond a doubt, a considerable portion of the copy of the holy Gospels used by Saint Patrick, and presented to him by Saint Macarthen. This MS. has three covers; the first and most ancient, of yew; the second, of copper plated with silver; and the third, of silver plated with gold.
Beautiful—sadly, solemnly beautiful—are the remains of Ireland’s ancient
grandeur; but though her splendor may have passed away; though she be no longer “the school of Christendom”; though her abbeys and monasteries, her churches and towers and sculptured crosses, lie mostly heaps of wayside ruins, still her faith, her wondrous faith, is fresh and strong as in those bygone ages. As it was in those days of old when the fervent piety of her sons led them to distant lands, apostles of religion and science, so is Ireland’s faith now, warm and active as ever. In all her struggles, in all her sorrows, her faith has stood by her side to minister consolation and to ward off despair.
O lovely, unhappy isle! “thou chief of reliquaries,” though thy shamrock be watered with tears, still thou hast the better part!
“And if of every land the guest,
Thine exile back returning
Finds still one land unlike the rest,
Discrowned, disgraced, and mourning,
Give thanks! Thy flowers, to yonder skies
Transferred, pure airs are tasting;
And, stone by stone, thy temples rise
In regions everlasting!”
Will “the bound and suffering victim” ever again breathe freely?—will religious freedom and political freedom ever again stand hand in hand on the dewy turf of Erin?—will the Lia Fail ever again roar beneath the seat of an independent Irish ruler?—these are questions which Time alone can answer. But whatever fate may be reserved for long-tried Ireland in the future, however disconsolate her present, every Irishman’s heart should glow with pride and love when he remembers the glory of her early days—glory such as no other country ever possessed—glory of which no centuries of relentless tyranny can deprive her—the glory of having been, when all was dark around, the home of learning and the fatherland of saints!