MacLiac, if we accept his authorship of the Wars, is swept away by panegyric; he exaggerates the slavery and misery of the Irish and the might and cruelty of the Northmen in order to throw his two heroes into higher relief; still, probably, he is not far wrong in his estimate of them-a tree is known by its fruit. They were "stout, able, valiant, fierce, magnificent, hospitable, munificent, strong, lively, and friendly; the most eminent of the west of Europe." Probably, under the staggering blow of their royal father's death, they fled over the Shannon, with their people, who dispersed and hid in the unbroken sheets of forest.* A long guerilla war ensued: “it was woe to either party to meet the other." The great woods grew down to the very river bank, opposite the Danish town of Limerick, and the Danes had no warning that the princes were afield till they were attacked. At last, when even Mathgamhain was tired of the petty raids and made a truce with the enemy, Brian was left alone with a handful of followers. But the brave young warrior, "however small the injury he might be able to do the foreigner, preferred it to peace," and the warfare went on. Sheltering in rude huts instead of "longports" (camps), he wasted the Danes in all directions on the borders at Echtge, on Loch Derg, on the Fergus, in Tradree; nowhere were the foreigners safe. Brian killed them "in twcs, in threes, in fives, in scores"; and the Danish colonists in Tradree (like the Norman one three hundred years later) were driven to entrench their border. So we are told; but I never have found the smallest trace of their work, which some have been ignorant enough to identify with the great Bronze Age hill town at Moghane, to which the endless gold ornaments of the great Clare "gold find" belonged. But Brian's band was wearing itself cut; not only by the weapons of the Danes, but "the bad food and bad bedding," as so often, slew more than the sword. Sorrowful, dispirited, wretched, unpitied, weary, with no more than fifteen followers, he returned to his brother. Where were his followers? He had left them on the battle-field, above his ancestors' forts of Boroma and Grianan Lachtna, on Craglea, or in the everlasting Brentir, "the stagnant region," or on the sluggish Fergus; over all eastern Co. Clare lay the dust of his brave men; often did we deliver ourselves with success from positions in which we despaired of escape." Cenedid would never have made peace with the aliens; Lorcan did not submit to the King 66 * See Forests of the Lower Shannon Valley," Proceedings R.I.A. of Erin for so long as it took to play a game of chess; LugaidhMeann would not yield to the three great forces of Connacht till he drove them from Carn Feredaich (Carnarry) to Ath Lucait; then was Mathgamhain more cowardly than they? The King did not resent the plain speaking of the ardent young brother who had suffered so cruelly; he only defended himself; how could he meet the foreigners? in arms, in strength, in champions, they were superior; and then, with more anger, he said he would not leave the Dal Cais dead as Brian had left his people. Then Brian replied: "It is hereditary for me and for the Dal Cais to have to die, but not to have to submit to insult or contempt." Mathgamhain felt his brother's courage warming his chilled heart, and he sent to his tribes to ask would they have peace or war. Brian's words flew round, hundreds echoed them: "Better annihilation than submission." The Eoghanacht and Muscraighe warriors rushed to his standard, and they reoccupied Cashel. Ivor, leader of the Danes, angrily set out to waste the Dal Cais, but he only drove several chiefs to resist his raid, though again the chiefs of Desmond and Ui Cairbre were faithless to the cause of Ireland. In 968, seventeen years after Cenedid had fallen, the confederates marched to Cnamhcoill, near Tipperary, probably (as its name, "the wood of bones," implies), an old battle-field. The Dal Cais were opportunely joined by a kindred tribe, the Delbhna, under a famous. warrior, Cathal. Thence they moved northward to Sulchoid, or Sulloghod, at the Limerick Junction; the Danes fell on them. and a fierce sanguinary battle, of which no clear details are preserved, routed the foreigners. The Irish, wild with hope, hung on the retreating foe; the armies reached Limerick, entered it together; eight Danish leaders and some 2,000 men were slain in the fort, and the town was looted. Jewels, foreign saddlery, cloth of every colour, satin, silk, variegated scarlet and green, and, sad to say, swarms of captive girls and boys were carried away. The mature warriors were marched to the hill of Singland (where, earlier, St. Patrick had preached Christ to the Dalcassian Carthan, and where, seven centuries later, William's chief battery launched fire and death into the town), everyone fit for war was killed, and "the fort and town they reduced to a cloud of smoke and red fire." The King celebrated his triumph in a curious way-" For the good of the souls of the foreigners who were killed"-by holding races within a great circle of the Danish women resting on their hands and knees. The Danes, who had hidden, reinforced by those of Waterford, came up and plundered Emly, and re-occupied Limerick; twice the King drove them out with great loss; he made a red slaughter of them at Sengualann, or Shanagolden, near the old battlefield of Shanid. Ivor returned with a great fleet, but the spell of Danish rule was shattered, and nothing succeeds like success. Mathgamhain was King of Munster in reality, and his brother shared his triumph. After that nine prosperous years passed by. DEATH OF MATHGAMHAIN-BRIAN'S RISE TO POWER. Then, in 976, not by the Danes but by his own countrymen, jealous of his power, Mathgamhain fell into a trap. Donnabhain of the Ui Fidgeinti of Co. Limerick, and Maelmuadh of Desmond, inspired jealousy among the Eoghanachts, and with the Ui Cairbre they conspired against the King. To their shame they brought in Ivor and the Danes; and that nothing should be lacking, Donnabhain seized Mathgamhain when on a visit, under the pledge of the clergy, and handed him to the other conspirators, who put him to death, his blood staining the reliquary of St. Barri's Gospel, which he had clasped to his bosom. The clergy cursed Maelmuadh, the slayer, and soon afterwards he was blinded and fell at the battle of Belach Lechta, in 979. He was buried on the dark slope of the hill on whose sunward slope his victim lay buried. He On such occasions as this Brian rose to his full power; he devoted himself to avenge his beloved friend and brother. first slew Ivor, and cleared the islands and forts of the Fergus estuary of all the Danes. Donnabhain, in terror, sent for Harold, the Danish King of Munster, son of Ivor, to help him, and Brian slew them both, and ravaged the Ui Fidgeinti; and in two years he had avenged Mathgamhain on the leading conspirators. Then he devoted his prowess to gaining the Kingdom of Munster. He defeated and slew Maelmuadh, and ravaged the Deisi in Co. Waterford; he invaded and took hostages in Ossory, and invaded, captured, and put in fetters two Kings of Leinster; in 984 he was King of Munster and supreme in the south of Ireland. He could not rest at his former goal; collecting a huge flotilla he sailed up the Shannon and its lakes, with 300 boats, up to Loch Ree; they reduced Meath and Breifne, and then Connacht, slaying its crown prince. Brian's exploits struck terror into the titular King of Ireland. Despite many attempts to blacken his character, Maelsechlainn seems to have been a noble and worthy prince; but he saw three provinces, more or less, under the rule of the southern King, and he thought it wiser to make terms than to try and organise opposition. In 998 he and his formidable rival met, Brian escorted by a great fleet. Maelsechlainn gave him all the hostages of Leinster, whether Irish or Danish; with those of the Connacht tribes of Ui Maine (the Kellys) and Ui Fiachrach Aidne, Brian's neighbours. This virtually made the southern prince all powerful, and his only concession seems to have been a promise to leave Leth Cuinn, the "northern half," in the hand of the Ard Righ. The events that established Brian as High King de facto I reserve for a further section of this paper. THE ROSARY STARS (From the German of FATHER OPITZ, S.J.) How swift the evening shadows fall, Within the church a worshipper Translated by S. L. EMERY. M FATHER RUSSELL A REMINISCENCE BY M. E. FRANCIS RS. BLUNDELL has recently published a new book with the inscription, "To the beloved memory of Father Matthew Russell, S.J., my first editor and most kind friend, this story is gratefully dedicated." The story is her first novel, Molly's Fortunes, which had for many years-too long, we think-lain hidden in the back volumes of the IRISH Monthly. The volume begins with a very pleasant introduction of eight pages, telling how it was that this first novel came to be written, a bit of autobiography which will be of general interest as a disclosure of the first steps in a highly distinguished career, but which has a special interest for the IRISH MONTHLY and its readers, because of the kindly and feeling tribute to the founder and maker of this magazine. She begins with the stories she wrote in early childhood, romances in which the heroine invariably was set down as having "two rows" of "pearly" teeth. Miss Jennings, the governess, intervened with good result, encouraged her to write, and goodnaturedly advised her to write sense. "I remember the sensation of almost pained surprise with which I listened to Miss Jennings when she pointed out that it was unnecessary to be so precise, as, if the damsel in question possessed more than two rows of teeth she would be a monstrosity, and if less, it would surely be cruel to draw attention to the fact." Later on, through the good offices of the same governess, one of her stories was conveyed to Father Russell's hands, and so began her long-continued connection with the IRISH MONTHLY. She goes on to tell of her first interview with him : "At subsequent periods I myself sent papers and stories to Father Russell, which he never failed to receive kindly. His letters, full of encouragement and advice, extend over quite a number of years; but it was not until the summer of 1886 that I at last met him. "I had pictured him to myself, for some reason or other, as a tall, ascetic-looking, rather sarcastic man, though indeed our correspondence might have warned me of the groundlessness of this surmise; I had been half afraid of this first interview, but |