The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Garden of Girls, by Helena Walsh Concannon

A GARDEN OF GIRLS

SIR THOMAS MORE AND HIS DAUGHTER MARGARET

OBSERVING FROM HIS PRISON WINDOW THE MONKS GOING TO EXECUTION A.D. 1535

(From the picture by J. R. Herbert, R.A., in the National Gallery Vernon Collection)

A GARDEN OF
GIRLS
Or
Famous Schoolgirls of Former Days

BY
Mrs. THOMAS CONCANNON M.A.

Author of
“The Sorrow of Lycadoon” “The Land of
Long Ago” “Earth, Sea and Sky” etc.

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA
1914

“Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.”—Maud.

INTRODUCTION

I offer this little book (which aims at a reconstruction as faithful and accurate as careful research could achieve, of the real school-life and education of real little girls in many ages, and in many lands) to all those interested in the education of the Irish Girls of To-day—the women of a great and splendid To-morrow.

If it be true, as Cardinal Logue reminds us, that “A Nation is what its Women make its Men,” at no time was the question of the Education of her Girls of more importance to Ireland than it is now.

Is all well with that Education? By what test shall Ireland prove it?

As I write these words, there comes before me a memory of a wonderful little room, at the end of a Dresden Gallery, where the Sistine Madonna hangs beautiful and alone. Here, generation after generation of artists have come to gaze on that Miracle of Loveliness, and to test their own art by its perfection.

So, a little apart in the Gallery of the Scriptures hangs the immortal picture of the “Valiant Woman.” And it seemed to me, as I was writing of the Little Girls in my book, that I could see each age and each country coming to that picture as to a shrine, and trying to copy, each in its own medium, its untold perfection.

Do those who have charge of the Education of the Irish Girls of To-day stand often before that picture of the “Valiant Woman,” and do they try to reproduce her image?

If so, all is well with the Education of Ireland’s Girls—and all will be well with Ireland, the Nation.

HELENA CONCANNON.

Five of the sketches: Darlugdacha, St. Elizabeth, Cecilia Gonzaga, Margaret More, and Marie Jeanne d’Aumale, appeared in the “Irish Rosary” during 1912—I am indebted to the kindness of the Editor for permission to republish in book form. It is only one of a long list of favours, for which I am his grateful debtor.

I owe acknowledgment, also, to Professor Max Freund, Queen’s University, Belfast, for valuable direction in the Middle High German Studies underlying the sketch of St. Elizabeth.

H. C.

CONTENTS

A Garden of Girls

DARLUGDACHA

A Little Schoolgirl of St. Brigid

(Circa A.D. 490)

Part I.—The Orphaning of Darlugdacha

Across the plain, in the twilight, rode Flann with his noble guest-friends by his side, and his hunting train behind him. They had hunted all day in the woods to the south of the plain—on foot, as the old Irish custom was, while their horses grazed free in the forest glades, and the gillies guarded their masters’ trappings. Now, weary of limb themselves, they were astride their fresh steeds, and the miles that lay between them and the banqueting hall within the white Dún above the Liffey were miles of soft, springy turf. Even the trappers felt their heavy burdens light, as their feet touched it. They raced in time to the joyous concert of the beagles, and the tinkling of the horse-bells—every man of them with his great wolf-dog at his side.

The red sunset filled the West, and, in the glow of it, splendid mantles—purple and yellow, and green, and red—were yet more splendid. Gleams of fire were struck from great jewelled brooches, from the gold on bits and bridles, from richly-wrought horse-cloths. Flann himself, a glowing splendid figure, rode at the head of that splendid company, the pride of life in his heart, and crowning his haughtily carried head.

They came to a point from which a great oak tree was visible. It seemed to Flann, all at once, as if another hand than his were laid on the bridle, and his horse were being urged out of its straight course for the home stable. He lifted his echlasc,[1] and with it tried to turn the horse’s head back again. But in vain. One way only the horse would go, and that was towards the great oak tree, which spread a wide dark net against the red background of the sunset.

“Let it thus be,” said Flann, yielding. “Let us lay the wolf’s head at the holy maiden’s feet, that she may know how her cattle may henceforth graze in peace.” He called out the word to his followers, and presently they were all—horsemen, and runners, and dogs—thundering across the turf due westward.

They came to the door of the Lios, which surrounded the cells of the holy maiden, Brigid, and her companions. “Knock loudly,” cried Flann; and a gillie stooped and found the knocker in a niche by the door, and struck the wood heavily with it.

The sound of the sliding bolt followed speedily. The door opened, and a white figure stood framed in the door-porch.

“Prince Flann,” said a woman’s clear voice, with a note of wonder in it, “a blessing on thee and on thy company. Is it aught of ill befallen Etain, thy wife, which brings thee so late to the door of Brigid’s cell?”

Flann shouted a word back to the Cuchairi,[2] and one of them came forward, a tall man in a rough, frieze mantle, and laid a dead wolf at the nun’s feet.

“This is what brings us to Brigid’s cell, so far out of our way,” said Flann, pointing with jewelled “echlasc” to the gaunt, stark figure, stretched on the grass before the immdorus.[3] “Now, oh! Blathnata, may the flocks of Brigid, and you her sisters, graze in peace.”

He met the eyes of the little pale nun, and found them fixed on him with a strange compassion. The red of the sunset had suddenly faded from the sky, and a quick fear clutched his heart as the chill, grey shadows followed it. What word was that Blathnata had spoken of an ill that may have befallen Etain, his wife?

His gaze went past the slim, white figure in the immdorus. Behind her he could see, over the darkling lawn, the pale glimmer of the little lime-washed wattle cells, where Brigid and her sisters dwelt. The oak tree was stirring with a queer moaning sound, and the voice of the brook that ran past it, and out under the Lios into the plain, held a sob. Then suddenly the smell of wet grass and running water was lost in the acrid smell of blood. The spear-wound in the wolf’s heart was bleeding again.

Prince Flann could feel beneath him how his horse was trembling in every limb. From behind came the nervous neighing of steeds, the soothing words of the riders, the frightened yelp of a dog, suddenly silenced. Then a burst of music came floating out from over the Lios—and horses and dogs quieted. Flann looked again, and saw the windows of the little wooden church, where the holy virgins were gathered for the vesper hymn, streaming with a faint but steady light.

How was it that Flann could only hear in the vesper music wherewith the Church, the kind Mother, soothes and comforts her tired and frightened children, before the coming of the darkness, the echoes of the death-song of Cineal Cearbhail? How was it that the lights of the Church burned before him like corpse-candles? Not he alone of that splendid company felt the joy and pride of life yield to an eerie sense of inevitable death.

“Must we wait until her evening prayer is ended, before we may speak with Brigid?” said Flann at last, mastering himself with a strong effort.

It was too dark to see the expression of Blathnata’s face. But the tone of her voice made the fear that was clutching at Flann’s heart take a tighter grip. “Our Mother knew (by what means I may not say) that Etain, thy wife, had need of her. Nathfraich, the charioteer, drove her over the plain, to-day, to thy Dún by the Liffey, and there she yet bides.”

What a ride was that over the plain in the darkness when the sun had burned itself out of the sky, and the world was black with its ashes. Never a word had Flann spoken since he turned his horse away from the door of Brigid’s Lios. Never once did he lift his head from his breast, until the neighing of his horse made him conscious of the scent of river-water. Then he looked, as his habit was, for the lights of his Dún, and saw them laid like a crown of jewels on the brow of the hill.

But what lights were they? Small need to ask that question when the wailing of women came to him already over the glimmering white palisade, towards which he and his company were climbing.

He was off his horse before a gillie could come to him. He had no thought of his guests as he hurried past the banqueting-hall, where their shields hung in order above the spread tables. Their feet had hardly touched the ground, when he had climbed the outer staircase which led to the grianan—and saw what it held for him.

In the centre of it, on a rich couch of beaten bronze, lay the white form of a girl. The little golden head was pressed deep into the thick deerskin cushion. On the breast, beneath the delicate white hands, joined for the supreme prayer, the fold of the embroidered coverlet was ominously still. The light of tall wax candles, grouped around the couch, fell on the chiselled beauty of a high-bred white, young face.

Around the circular, tapestry-covered walls women were seated, making lament for the passing away of so much beauty, and love, and youth. “It is low your yellow head lies to-night, oh, Etain of the golden locks, you that were wont to hold it high at the Feastings of Kings and Heroes, when poets sang the high deeds of Flann, your Lord. It is cold and still your hands are, that were wont to be stretched out for the relieving of the wants of the stranger, and the poor; for the pouring out of wine for guests; for the rewarding of learned men, and men of valour. No colder and stiller than your heart, that was once warm with the noble blood of the race of Con! Ochone! Ochone! for the cold, still heart that can never feel the warmth of the little child nestling against it.”

The “keeners” were suddenly silent—for a cry more heartrending than theirs was filling the death-chamber. It was the cry of a little motherless baby. A tall woman, dressed from head to foot in spotless white, with a white veil thrown over her long, dark hair, had entered the room, and, coming straight to where Flann knelt by the couch of his dead wife, she stooped and tried to lay in his empty arms, what she was carrying in the shelter of her white mantle.

“See, Prince Flann,” she said, “what Etain, thy wife, has left thee for thy consolation until the day comes when she may stretch out her hands to thee again—and welcome thee home for ever.”

But Flann would not lift his face. “Take it away, oh! Brigid!” he said, “and let me not look on that which has cost me the loss of my one treasure. Let the God you serve keep the child, and give me back Etain, my wife.”

There was a moment’s silence, for Brigid had the child anew in the folds of her mantle, and its cries had ceased. Then there came a deep groan, followed by a sudden, horrified cry from the women. Brigid knelt down quickly, the child in her arms, and lifted one of the hands, which Flann had flung in his passion of despair across the dead body of his wife. Heavy as lead it dropped from her grasp. It was the hand of a dead man.

She rose then, the sorrow of the world darkening her grey eyes. “Methinks the wish of Flann has been fulfilled,” she said. “Now he stands with Etain, his wife—and their little child shall be consecrate to God.”

Part II.—The Fostering of Darlugdacha.

So in the folds of Brigid’s white mantle, the little orphan maiden, Darlugdacha, found shelter; and the first home she knew was the white-washed hut of wattles and clay in the shadow of the great oak tree of the Plain of Kildare.

Very warm was the nest they made for her—the holy maidens, who were Brigid’s companions. Dear gentle Daria, the blind nun, wove a cradle of osiers, and Blathnata filled a deer-skin with downy feathers to lay in it. Kinnia spun fine linen for it; and Brigid, herself, took the wool of the whitest lamb in her flock, and spun and wove it into warm, soft coverlets. When the sisters were gathered with spindle, and distaff, and needle on the lawn, the little cradle stood in the midst of them, protected from the damp grass by the wolf-skin, which had been Flann’s last offering. But it was so contrived that it could be hung, also, from a branch of the tree. So, as the little green leaves began to peep out on the oak tree, they found among their green company something that they might well have taken for a beautiful, rosy blossom. And it was the little child in her cradle.

At night the cradle was hung from the feici[4] in Brigid’s cell, a dim lamp swaying from the opposite end. And when the dawn came, and Brigid set wide the door to let it in, there was always standing by the threshold her own snow-white pet doe, waiting to give her milk to feed her tiny nursling.

The months passed quickly, and at last the little maiden had climbed out of the cradle, and was learning to take her first faltering steps. Blind Daria, with her deft hands, had fashioned the quaintest garments for her. They were of undyed lambs’-wool, and made in the same fashion that the holy maidens, themselves, had chosen. There was a white mantle, too; and on the curly, baby head, was set a snow-white veil.

But not in dress alone was Darlugdacha a little nun. Very early, like all healthy little girls, she insisted on taking an active part in the life she saw around her. There was one beautiful night when Brigid and her companions were gathered in the Church for the Second Nocturn. The lamps were swaying from the ridge-pole, and in the dim light of them the nuns were singing from psalters of their own copying the appointed psalms. All but blind Daria, who needed no psalter and no lamp-light.

All at once the blind nun’s quick ear caught a sound at the barred door. Very softly she stole from her place and set it open. There was Darlugdacha, with her white tunic all stained with mud, her rosy face all stained with tears, and her baby hands all hurt with beating at the door. Sightless Daria could see these things, as she stooped and gathered the forlorn little figure into her arms. Presently, she was back in her place again, with Darlugdacha’s head on her shoulder, and Darlugdacha singing her own version of the psalms after her, in the sweetest baby voice. But, long before the Office was ended, Darlugdacha was sound asleep.

After that night, Daria would always slip into the Abbess’ hut before she took her own place in the church, and, if the child seemed restless, she would wrap her up warmly in her own mantle and carry her with her. So Darlugdacha early took her part in the “Magnum Opus,” and the earliest words her tongue uttered were the praises of God. The music of the psaltery was her most frequent lullaby.

She was welcome everywhere, and in no place whithersoever her little pattering feet led her, did she find her help, however embarrassing to the recipient, disdained. Even when there were guests in the guest-house, and Blathnata, the cook, was very busy in the kitchen, Darlugdacha could enter that domain fearlessly, and, as Blathnata soon found out, could make herself astonishingly useful. The kitchen was a little round hut, which stood by itself behind the other cells. A fire of wood burned in the middle of it, the smoke escaping through a hole in the roof. It was always a joy to Darlugdacha when Blathnata swung the beautiful shining cauldron over the flames, and the cheerful simmering of the meat within filled the little hut with sound. She was very proud of herself when she was, at last, permitted to go near enough to the fire to turn the fish, or joints, that were roasting on spits of pointed hazel rods round the fire, and proudest of all, when Blathnata showed her how to baste them with honey. She was very young, indeed, when she cooked her first dish of Craibhacan, chopping the meat fine, and flavouring it with leeks, and kale, and rowan berries. Nathfraich, the charioteer, won her heart by making for her a tiny kneading trough, and a sieve with a whale-bone bottom, and he secured it for ever by manfully eating to the last crumb the first cake she baked with these utensils. Kinnia said, as she and Blathnata were carrying water one day from the covered well in the dairy to the kitchen, and Darlugdacha was trotting along by their side (her hand on one of the handles of the pail, as if she had the whole weight of it herself), that, for her part, she would rather eat a woman’s ration than a man’s ration of Darlugdacha’s baking. But when she saw Darlugdacha, presently, with one of Blathnata’s cooking-aprons on her (so as to save her white tunic), scrubbing away very busily at Blathnata’s wooden vessels, the little woman looked so sweet, that Kinnia told herself she would eat a whole cake, if it were necessary, to please her.

There was never such a busy little girl. When work was slack in the kitchen, there was the dairy to keep her in occupation. Brigid herself loved the dairy, and, mindful of her own young days, gave Darlugdacha the freedom of it early. In the delicious dawn-hour, when the sisters, one and all, went out to the milking, there was never a happier young thing, whether among the lambs, or the birds, or the flowers, than the tiny white maiden who trotted between Brigid and Daria, with each hand in one of theirs, laughing back at Kinnia and Blathnata, who carried the wooden milking vessels between them. She knew each of the cows by name, and she would call them out in her clear voice the moment she passed out of the door of the Lios, and came in sight of the “badhun” (bawn, lit. cow-fort), into which the cattle were driven each night for safety. And when the gate of the badhun was reached, there they were waiting for her—Bainidhe and Breacaidhe, and Sgead and Riabhac, and all the others, lowing in answer. And the sound of their bells put the birds on the tops of the apple-trees of the Lios, to shame.

It happened, however, one morning, that when Darlugdacha got to the gate of the badhun, she found among the waiting, lowing herd, no Bainidhe—the little white cow with the red ears, which was her special pet. It seemed that two lepers had come to Brigid the day before, and the sight of their miserable condition so prevailed with the compassionate Abbess that she promised to give them the best cow in her byre, leaving the choice to them. Of course, it naturally fell on Bainidhe.

Darlugdacha’s soft little heart was torn by two emotions when she heard the explanation of Bainidhe’s absence. She was dreadfully sorry, to be sure, for the poor lepers, whom she had learned to pray for night and morning. But, I fear me, she was far more sorry for Bainidhe, driven away from her nice, juicy pasturage, and the fragrant breath, and the lowing of her companions, and the warm shelter of the badhun—and the stroking of a little girl’s soft hand.

It was the turn of Brigid herself, that day, to drive the cows, after milking, from the badhun, and herd them in the Curragh. Usually, Darlugdacha would be out of herself with delight when it was proposed, as it was now, that she should go with her. But to-day it was clear that the delights of a day with the dear mother, all to herself, in the glorious plain, were overshadowed by the loss of Bainidhe. So Brigid told Kinnia to take Darlugdacha back with her to the dairy, and let her help to skim the cream, and stand as near as ever she liked to the cuinneog (churn), when the loinid (churn-dash) was beating the white milk-waves into flying froth—which, on ordinary occasions, was not considered a suitable place for a little girl, who had a white tunic to keep clean.

It took her some time before she was her cheerful little self again. Even the pat of butter Kinnia gave her to stamp failed to bring her consolation. But a good drenching in buttermilk froth helped her wonderfully; and when Kinnia (who, I am afraid, was not guiltless in the matter of that drenching) had wiped the small, rosy face dry again, she felt inclined to give credence to Kinnia’s expressed faith that she would see Bainidhe again before very long.

A greater number of poor came that day to the gate than usual. Darlugdacha was kept very busy helping Kinnia to attend to their wants. Here a poor woman wanted milk for her sick son; there a crippled girl had come for butter; for a poor man with a large family there was a great loaf of bread, with cheese and bacon, and a measure of milk. Now, as Darlugdacha flew from the kitchen to the dairy, and thence to the gate, she seemed to have in her ears all the time the lowing of Bainidhe. At last, towards evening, when all the other poor had departed, there came a great knocking with the “bas-chrannidhe” at the door; and when Kinnia and Darlugdacha went to open it, what should they find before them but the two lepers of the day before—and Bainidhe.

They had not been able to drive Bainidhe a single step beyond a certain point in the plain, well within sight of the Oak Tree. And so they had come back to ask Brigid to help them again.

Happy Darlugdacha, her small arms round Bainidhe’s white neck, her small hand alternately stroking Bainidhe’s nose, or pulling her red ear, was welcoming her restored darling, while Bainidhe was lowing with contentment, and trying to tell how clever she had been, and Kinnia was away with Blathnata in the kitchen, preparing a comfortable meal for the two poor lepers. At that moment the tinkling of cow-bells was heard, and Brigid came in sight, driving her cattle across the plain.

The lepers could not await her coming. They were off to meet her like two flashes of lightning. And presently, over the lowing of the cattle and the tinkling of the cow-bells, and the joyous barking of the “cubuachaill” (i.e., “dog-cowherd,” sheep-dog), Darlugdacha could hear their hoarse voices telling Brigid their story.

Then, quite suddenly, the tinkling of a cow-bell was heard from another direction, and a man was seen coming from the North driving a cow before him.

Darlugdacha left off stroking Bainidhe for a moment, and waited to see what would happen.

Brigid and the lepers and her cows came up with the stranger and his cow just at the Lios gate.

“My Master has sent this cow to thee as a gift,” said the man, and put an end of the halter that was round the cow’s neck in Brigid’s hand. With that he was off again.

Brigid looked at the cow which she held haltered, and then at the one Darlugdacha was stroking. And Darlugdacha looked at the new cow, and then at Bainidhe, and then back again. The two cows were exactly alike.

“Methinks my Master has sent this cow to you, poor men,” said Brigid, “instead of the one that would not go with you.” She put the halter into the hands of the two lepers; and when Kinnia and Blathnata had given them food, they drove off their new cow contentedly.

Since they did not come back for a long long time, I feel sure that the second cow must have gone with them obediently. As for Bainidhe, she was driven with her other companions into the badhun, and Darlugdacha stood very close to her, while Brigid herself milked her.

In those days, when the ideal of education was the direct preparation of the child for the duties which his future station in life was likely to lay on him, the law itself took cognisance of the necessity of training girls in the arts of household management. “The use of the quern, and the kneading trough, and the use of the sieve are to be taught to their daughters” says the Senchus Mór to Foster Parents in one place; and, again, to those who foster the children of Chieftains, “sewing, and cutting-out, and embroidery are to be taught to their daughters.”

You may be sure then that Darlugdacha (whom Brigid held in fosterage for the High King of Heaven Himself) was early trained in the use of the spindle, and the distaff, and the needle. In the quiet evenings of the tender Irish summer-time, when the nuns sat on the lawn under the shadow of the great oak, and Brigid, her poet’s soul stirred to the depths by the beauty of the world around her, was thinking, with pity, of Daria’s blindness, a little girl could be seen making a very brave attempt to imitate whatever she saw Kinnia, and Daria, and Blathnata, and Brigid herself do. It was Daria’s task to comb the wool. She drew it out in handfuls from the bag at her feet, and combed it with a pair of “cards” until it was fit for spinning. Then she turned it over to Blathnata, who wound it first loosely on the cuigeal (distaff), and then, dexterously, spun it on to the spindle. Kinnia was kept busy with her bronze needle and ball of wool, fashioning garments for the sisters themselves, or for the many poor who depended on them. And, while Brigid’s clever artist-fingers are copying on some beautiful ecclesiastical garment, with many coloured, precious threads, the design stamped on the leather pattern she holds before her, let us, whose fashionable pedagogy lays so much stress on “Object Lessons,” think how fortunate Darlugdacha is. There is not a process, from the sowing of the flax-seed to the making up of the linen altar-cloth, that she has not witnessed with her own eyes. She has been able to follow, step by step, the evolution of the woollen garment which Kinnia is fashioning—from the shearing of the sheep onward.

In the winter evenings the sisters sat in the loom-house, and wove the flaxen and woollen yarn they had prepared during the summer into linen and cloth. Darlugdacha loved to sit by, in the light of the rush candles, and watch the shuttle being flung back and forth. But something more precious was being woven during these hours than the web on the loom; and many a wonderful old story, many a gracious thought, many a poem, and many a prayer, were being patterned into the weaving of it. The old Irish, a people courteous and sociable, held no one cultured who could not “talk” well. Story-telling, as a great test of education and good breeding, was the accomplishment they valued most. Little Darlugdacha, who was set aside to be the bride of the King of Kings, was in the thought of those who fostered her to get the culture of a Princess. Can you picture her, a little white girl, sitting very close to her dear mother, telling, when the turn for a tale comes to her, some story she has been taught concerning the ancient days and ways in Erinn? Very sweetly and gravely the clear, treble voice carries the tale. Do you notice how pleasant is its “timbre,” how very expressive its inflections, how charming and musical its modulations? There is no instrument from which better effects can be obtained than the human “speaking” voice; and do they not do well, in this ancient Ireland, to which we have slipped back in search of our Darlugdacha, to devote great care to its cultivation? It is true they are fortunate in having in this language they speak, rich in sounds, full of delicately-shaded endings, a marvellous exerciser. And have we nothing to learn from Darlugdacha’s teachers?

We have still other things to learn from Darlugdacha’s teachers. Those story-telling lessons held many lessons in one. In a highly inflected language, like Old Irish, to learn to tell a continuous tale was to undergo, among other things, a thorough drill in Grammar. The material of the tale was a storehouse of instruction in History and Geography. The Memory-training, which we try to combine with an awakening of the aesthetic faculties when we prescribe the memorising of poetry for our youngsters, was admirably acquired by the same means. As for “Education,” there was Character-training in those old tales that set the heart beating for noble deeds, nobly done. Character-training, too, in the reasoned patriotism they taught by showing why Ireland was a country to be loved, and how to love her. Courtesy and Dignity ever hovered before the apprentice story-teller as the ideal to be striven for. Courtesy demanded the best of him, that it might be offered to his neighbour for his neighbour’s pleasure. Dignity and Self-respect demanded the best of him, that it might be worthy of himself.

You must not go away with the idea, however, that Darlugdacha’s “Instruction” was all gained by learning to re-tell the old tales. She had her reading and writing lessons, too. I like to think that the same method was adopted with her to make her learn her letters, as was found efficacious with Saint Columbkille. Perhaps Blathnata made a cake for her—a nice cake with plenty of honey in it—and traced the alphabet on the top of it. As Darlugdacha learned to know the letters, she could make her very own of them, you see, by eating them. It may have required more than one cake to make the process of instruction complete. No matter how many were needed, I am sure Blathnata did not spare them.

At last, Darlugdacha had got beyond her alphabet cakes, and was all afire to get helping the sisters to copy the psalter. Cilldara was a small place in those days, and had no “Teach Screptra.”[5] But the books hung in their leathern satchels from hooks along the walls of the Erdam (or Sacristy) that opened off the little Church. Hither came the nuns in turn to help to make the new copies, of which the Abbess had constant need to bestow in alms on poor churches. Two or three other virgins had joined the community since Darlugdacha’s coming; and one of them, the daughter of a scribe, was particularly skilful at the work. Darlugdacha was fascinated by it. She would stand for hours at a time watching the clever pen go delicately over the vellum—and longing for the day when she, too, would sit at a desk with a quill in her right hand, and a knife in her left to keep it pointed, with her conical ink-cup fastened to her chair-arm—a fully-equipped scribe. In the meantime, she was forced to content herself with her fan-shaped, waxed tablets, on which she practised copying with a metal “style.” When the wax surface was used up, she rubbed it smooth, and began over again. Thus the little hands grew sure and steady—and, at last, one day, on an old piece of vellum, they tried their skill with the pen.

Down across the ages, from those exquisite days, fresh and beautiful as the summer dawn, there has come to us a poem of Brigid’s. It sets us in the midst of the preparations for a great Church Festival, where the Guest of Honour was to be One Who, indeed, was never absent from the midst of the white band of women whom the Oak Tree sheltered. For, was not every act of theirs a prayer? And were they not gathered together in His name? And hath He not made a promise? Nevertheless, it is fitting that, at Easter time His Resurrection be honoured, and the poor and the afflicted, His chosen representatives, be made joyful. So as the paschal moon gets nearer and nearer to its white perfecting in the East, the little hive beneath the Oak Tree grows busier. There is ale to be brewed for the faithful who shall attend the Celebration of the Passion in the neighbouring churches. There is corn to be ground in the querns, to be ready for baking into paschal cakes, or dealt out to the needy. There are candles for the altar to be made of virgin wax from the bee-hives in the nuns’ scented garden. There is store of meat to be salted and cooked for the banqueting table, spread for the poor. In the little wooden Church, blind Daria, the sacristan, is laying out her choicest vestments, taking from their places of safety the precious vessels. The altar linen, snowy from the brook, stands ready. Around His Throne are flowers and fragrant herbs.

And little Darlugdacha is flitting, like a white bird, in the midst of it all, singing Brigid’s hymn—finding, in all this preparation, its mystic significance, learning the reading of the Riddle of Life:—

I should like a great lake of ale

For the King of the Kings;

I should like the family of Heaven

To be drinking it through time eternal.

I should like the viands

Of belief and pure piety;

I should like flails

Of penance at my house.

I should like the men of Heaven

In my own house.

I should like kieves

Of peace to be at their disposal.

I should like vessels

Of charity for distribution;

I should like caves

Of mercy for their company.

I should like cheerfulness

To be in their drinking;

I should like Jesus

Here to be among them.

I should like the three

Marys of illustrious renown;

I should like the people

Of Heaven, there from all parts.

I should like that I should be

A rent-payer to the Lord;

That should I suffer distress,

He would bestow upon me a good blessing.

SAINT ELIZABETH

A Little German Schoolgirl of the Middle Ages

Part I.—“A Star in the East.”

Has not Herr Walther,[6] good-humouredly turning the laugh against himself, advised all those who suffer from earache to stay away from the Court of Thuringia? For my part I can never read his “Spruch”:—“Swer in den ôren siech von ungesûhte sî,” without feeling a most realistic discomfort at the din, made even in the poetry (and at 700 years’ distance!) by the alternating trains of “coming and parting guests,” for whom Landgraf Hermann’s undiscriminating hospitality had equal “welcome and speeding”; and without endorsing Herr Wolfram’s[7] regret that no Kaye, the boorish Seneschal of King Arthur’s Court, held office in the Wartburg, to keep the “good and bad” in their respective places.

How intolerable the ceaseless din could be, even to one who was born in the midst of it, a little boy was dolorously feeling on a certain summer’s evening of the year 1211. The noise seemed worse than usual from the impression he had (which nobody took the slightest trouble, alas! to remove), that he was hopelessly “out of it.” When, braving the dragon which kept terrible guard over King Ortnit, murdered in his sleep (a warning, in high relief over the tower gate, to watchmen too fond of sleep), he had climbed the rough spiral staircase to the keep, he had found no welcome from the warder, intent on scanning the horizon for an eagerly expected messenger. Shouts, that sounded not all too sober, from the House of the Muleteers, warned him off their premises. As for the kitchen—with the roaring of fires, and the creaking of spits, and the cursing of cooks and scullions, and the wailing of imprisoned fowl, awaiting execution under the huge table—that was Inferno! As the little boy passed the great stone steps that led to the entrance of the Palas, he put his hands in his ears; for the door of the Saal stood open, and amidst the gambols of gleemen, and the notes of every musical instrument known to the period—flageolet, guitar, organistrum, bagpipe, psaltery, tabor, lute, sackbut, rebeck and gigue—Landgraf Hermann was reminding guests (who needed small reminder) that, if ever there was an excuse for emptying flagons, it was to-day, when the little Hungarian Princess, the betrothed of his son and heir, Hermann, was due to arrive at her German home.

In the Armourers’ House our little boy had been frankly snubbed; and big brother, Hermann, whom he found in it (made much of as the hero of the day), being measured, if you please, for a suit of armour (which he supposed he would need very soon now), had given him the brutal advice to go back to Agnes, and Heinrich, and Conrad in the nursery—and not be forcing his company on his elders.

And then, suddenly, things had changed. As he turned out of the Armourers’ smithy, with Hermann’s mocking laugh in his ears, he heard his own name called once or twice. His mother had sent one of her women in search of him, and he was to come at once to the women’s apartments.

It certainly was a comfort to be wanted somewhere, and young Ludwig made about two steps of the staircase which led to the long open gallery on the side of the great courtyard. He lingered a little, though, on the gallery, for the sense of beauty and comfort which one had to starve somewhat in mediæval castles found satisfaction here. Sweet-scented flowers grew in boxes in the spaces between the charming double columns, which even to-day are the Wartburg’s chief architectural beauty. In gilded cages beneath the open arches were the little song-birds his mother loved. On the inside wall were painted tender domestic scenes from the Bible. He had a dim but very pleasant consciousness, as he passed them by, that the figures were smiling out on him the welcome of old friends. And as he paused for a moment at the door of his mother’s room, and looked back along the gallery, he noticed that the last rays of the sun were filling it, and the birds were singing, and some of the flowers, that had gone to sleep, had wakened up again.

But all this did not prepare him for what he found when he pushed open the door, and stood on the threshold of the great vaulted chamber, where his mother awaited him.

A feast of colour and light! Instead of the golden evening rays, here was the soft radiance of hundreds of waxen tapers. The hinged wooden shutters had been let down over the unglazed window spaces, and night was summoned hither before her time. From the quartered arches of the painted roof hung chandeliers of enamelled bronze, of the admirable workmanship of the period, and each of them was laden with lights. In long rows between the columns on which the roof rested stood tall candle-sticks with great “king-candles” burning in them. On the hearth flamed a fire of scented wood, and the light of candles and leaping fire made wonderful play with the glowing colours of the painted ceilings, and the splendid tapestry on the walls.

“Come hither, fair son.”

Young Ludwig came over the flower-strewn floor, between columns of coloured marble and “king-candles,” his handsome, fair head held high. In his page’s dress of crimson, he fitted in well with the rest of the scene. So did his mother, standing in the midst of her maidens, stately and beautiful in her mantle, with its shimmering embroideries, its long train, and breast fastening of regal pearls. She held out a little white hand to him, and he kissed it, kneeling on one knee. Then, with a sudden impulse, as if the mother claimed her rights as well as the princess, she stooped down to him, moved aside her wimple, and laid his firm young cheek against her own. She left her hand in his, while he rose from his knees, and led him with it to the top of the chamber.

“Look, fair son, and tell me what you see.”

For a moment Ludwig was so astonished at what he saw that he could not speak. Then he turned to his mother with a question: “Who worked the tapestry? And how do I come to be standing in the Landgraf’s robes, high on the Wartburg, with the valley and the town of Eisenach far beneath me, and a great star hanging low from the sky above my head?”

His mother answered one part of his question: “The ‘Wise Nun’ in thy Father’s Convent of Eisenach has wrought it,” she said, and then stopped suddenly, and led him to the lateral wall.

“This, too, hath the wise nun wrought?” he asked in growing astonishment. For the tapestry on this wall depicted a scene which had occurred in the Wartburg four years previously, with a fidelity which seemed impossible to anyone but an eye-witness.

It was the celebrated “War of the Poets” on the Wartburg—the “Wartburgkrieg”—the memory of which is as fresh to-day as when young Ludwig looked on the “Wise Nun’s” tapestry, and saw it pictured in glowing colours and wealth of detail on the canvas.

There on the “Minstrels’ Gallery” were the seats of Duke Hermann and Duchess Sophia. The Landgräfin had risen from hers, and with the folds of her mantle was covering a terror-stricken suppliant. In the Minstrel’s Hall, a step or two beneath the Gallery, were the other contestants. Ludwig recognises each of the angry faces that are turned towards the fugitive—Wolfram von Eschenbach, Walther von der Vogelweide, Heinrich von Zweten, and Heinrich Schreiber. A man, with the instruments of the executioner in his hand to label him for the spectator, is starting forward, but the quick movement is arrested by someone he sees in the opening door—a white-haired, venerable man, with a long beard.

“It is Klingsohr, the Wise Man from Hungary, who has come just in time to save the life of Heinrich von Ofterdingen,” says Ludwig, while his mother nodded confirmation. Young Ludwig passed on.

Here was the white-haired man again—in a garden this time before one of the little tables which have been in German inn-gardens since first such things were, and will be, until they are no more. He has risen from the table and is scanning the skies—and, behold! very low in them is hanging the star which shines about Ludwig’s own head in the piece of tapestry opposite. From the other tables, men in the knightly garb of peace, have risen likewise, neglecting their chess, and draughts, and dice, and drinking flagons, to follow the direction of the old man’s pointing arm.

On the left wall another many-figured scene. A king and queen on their thrones in the midst of a full and splendid court. Between them, the wonderful star is poised; and at their feet are kneeling ambassadors, whom Ludwig recognises as those sent from his father’s court, to ask the hand of the little Hungarian Princess (whose birth had been announced to him by Klingsohr) for his eldest son, Hermann.

“How wonderful it is,” said Ludwig, “but why did the ‘Wise Nun,’ so exact in all else, make the mistake of clothing me in the Landgraf’s robes, instead of Hermann?”

Nobody answered, for a peal from the Berchfrid,[8] that rang through every corner of the huge enclosure on the Wartburg, made its way into the women’s apartments, and told those who waited there that they need wait no more. The serving women were busy with their lady’s mantle, and presently the hum of a merry little song, and the ring of a martial (and not quite steady) step was heard along the gallery, and Duke Hermann, somewhat flushed from his mighty potations, but excellently-humoured, came into the “kemenate.”

“Art ready to meet thy daughter-in-law, Frau Landgräfin?” he said, jocularly. “If so, there is no time to be lost. What, Ludwig, still at thy mother’s girdle? It fears me much that we shall never make a sturdy drinker and fighter of thee, to keep thy father in countenance.”

Over Duchess Sophia’s fine face a shadow fell. She loved this passionate Lord of hers, with all his faults and all his weaknesses. But it was the dearest prayer of her soul to preserve her sons from following the path he trod. As much as lay in her power, she strove to keep them away from the motley company which held revel in the hall of the main building. But Hermann had speedily emancipated himself. “The lust of the eyes, the delight of the flesh, and the pride of life,” had put their fascination on him as soon as he had got clear of the women’s apartments. Ludwig was different. A certain asceticism, answering her own, had early revealed itself in his character. A strength of purpose, a force of self-restraint, a natural attitude of noble aloofness from all that seemed unworthy, made her build high hopes on Ludwig. And as for Hermann, who knew what blessings might be brought him by this child-bride from Hungary, whose birth had been accompanied by such wonders, who had already won the gladness of peace for her own land?

Joyfully, then, she went forth to meet her. Outside on the gallery torches burned. The great courtyard was full of light and movement, the stamping of horses, the shouting of orders, snatches of laughter and song. She heard a whisper from Ludwig: “May I be your escort, Lady Mother?” and answered with a pressure of the hand. A groom brought her horse, and Ludwig lifted her from the mounting-stone at the bottom of the staircase, on to the bench-like seat, which, for the ladies of the thirteenth century, took the place of a saddle. Her husband and Hermann were already mounted; Ludwig, as his mother’s chosen squire, was at her horse’s head. So they rode, with a long train of knights, and ladies, and squires, and pages, behind them, out of the great court into the Vorburg, and then through the triple gates of the entrance tower, out over the lowered drawbridge, and so to the narrow and dangerous path which led to the plain below. So narrow was the path that they could but ride in single file with a torch-bearer beside each rider to light the way for them. In the depths below them, Eisenach lay, a great blazing jewel in the dark valley. All sorts of summer-night scents came to them from the sloping woods on either side. There was no darkness in the sky, only a deep blue, cut by exquisite star-forms. In the west was a thin curve of a very young moon. Landgraf Hermann began to hum a “Lied” of Walther’s, the “Praise of Summer”—“Swie wol der heide ir manicvaltiu varwe stât,” “How well the painted heath becomes its wealth of summer bloom”—and presently a boy’s soprano took it up, and to wood, and heath, and meadow were being revealed their own sweet loveliness, under the tender light of a poet’s longing, wistful yet passionless, like that of the thin young moon herself!

So those rode down from the Wartburg, who went forth from it to meet the King’s Daughter.

The gates of Eisenach opened to their trumpeter, and through the torch-lit streets they rode to the inn beside Saint George’s Gate, where Michael Hellgreff had had Klingsohr to guest, what time he saw the Star hang low in the mystic East. On their way, they passed groups of burghers and their dames, all in their Sunday best, sitting on benches under the overhanging stories of their gabled, wooden houses, who left off gossiping to cheer their Sovereigns and the handsome young bridegroom. Under the linden on the green, country lads and lasses, in the fine clothes which raised Neidhart’s bile, were dancing a merry “Springtanz,” to the infinite delight of the Court Pages and the dainty scorn of the Court Ladies. They shouted their “Heil” as the Ducal pair passed, but never lost a step. The market-place was almost impassable, so dense were the throngs that crowded round the roasting ox, and the fountain that played wine.

There were two people in the ducal procession who were not sorry to leave the uproar of the streets, and seek the quiet of Master Hellgreff’s garden. These were the Landgräfin and her second son. As for the Landgraf and Hermann, they and the Knights, and Squires, and Pages were out in the street again directly, and the ladies showed so evident a desire to follow them, and see all the gay doings, that the Landgräfin summoned back the Squires and put her ladies in their charge, and sent them forth.

But Ludwig and his mother had their own joy, sitting in the scented, dark garden, into which the gay noises of the streets came, robbed of their harshness, with the stars shining down on them, and the young moon over the woods, while they waited for the trumpet to sound at the gate.

It came at last, and Duchess Sophia hastened to the door of the inn, to be joined there by her Lord and Hermann, as had been agreed. As the Ducal tableau arranged itself, there was a moment’s silence, as if a whole people were holding its breath in expectation. It was broken by the noise of wheels, and a carriage passed through the towered gate, and stopped before the Hellgreff Inn. Two Knights, who rode on either side of it, dismounted, amid the frantic cheers of the by-standers, and knelt to kiss in turn the hand of the Landgraf and the Landgräfin. Then they turned to the carriage, wherein a lady was standing up, with a little sleeping girl in her arms. But the Landgräfin could wait no longer. Over the muddy street she went, in defiance of all etiquette, and took the little maid, warm and lovely with sleep, from the hands of Frau Bertha, and carried her to her Lord.

Then the joy of the people got beyond all bounds. And it was their shouts of welcome that made the little four-year-old bride open her eyes at last—on her German home.

Part II.—On the Wartburg.

It was astonishing how soon she really seemed to make it her home. Kind Duchess Sophia, who had watched the whole first night by the little bride’s silver cradle, in the Inn at Eisenach, looked carefully, in the days that followed their return to the Wartburg, for a sign of home-sickness. But, except that the child’s great dark eyes would sometimes fill with tears when they rested on Frau Bertha, she could find none. Little princesses are early schooled to stoicism, and before the tiny Hungarian’s “Königstochter,” left her father and mother, she had received lessons which, young as she was, she was not too young to understand.

So, after a time, she became, to all intents and purposes, a little German girl, as much one of the family as Agnes, or Heinrich, or Conrad, who shared the Kinderstube with her. She was more in awe of Hermann than anybody else; for Hermann had realised that, instead of its adding to his “manliness,” it made him rather ridiculous to be the “Bräutigam” of a mere baby like that—and his behaviour showed it. For Ludwig, on the contrary, she developed a shy friendship, which went straight to the boy’s chivalrous heart, and made her, in a manner, dearer to him than his blood-sister Agnes. For the rest, the little maid did not often see either Hermann or Ludwig, who were most of the day with their governor serving the first grade of their apprenticeship to the great profession of knighthood.

A mediæval nursery was a merry place, and mediæval children had nothing to envy their modern brothers and sisters, whether in the matter of toys or games. A lover of the romantic Middle Ages, Zingerle, in his wanderings through the Märchenwald of Middle High German poetry, or over the more prosaic lands ploughed by the Middle High German Moralists and “Didaktiker”—Thomasin von Zirclarie, Freidank, Hugo von Trimberg, and others—has found many a happy group of children, and gathered themselves and their games into a very charming book: “Das deutsche Kinderspiel im Mittelalter.” With the aid of it, we can easily reconstruct the life led by little Elizabeth in her nursery at the end of the “Kemenate” (women’s apartments).

While she and Agnes played with their dolls (“tocken”), or kept house with their toy cooking-vessels, Heinrich and Conrad jousted rather noisily on hobby horses, or, failing these, on two mettlesome steeds, which, outside the nursery, would have been taken for sticks. Nurse (“amme”) was as important a personage then as now, and had as many rôles to fill. Sometimes she presided over tourneys where wooden swords wrought frightful havoc on wooden shields. If anybody came out of the combat with bruised knee or finger, it was hers to dress the warrior’s wound—and, maybe, make it well again with kisses. At the tourneys where she presided there were nothing but victors. Everybody won the prize of painted egg or apple. (By the way, did you ever notice that the Christ Child of mediæval artists has always an apple in His chubby hand?) Sometimes she went visiting the stately “halls” where Elizabeth and Agnes played Châtelaine, and ate the wonderful things they cooked for her, and inquired about their doll-children, just as nurse does to-day. In a carved wooden box she kept the “best” toys, the birds and animals in coloured clay, or wood, or metal, which were too fine to be played with every day. In the nursery door there was always a hole cut near the ground, just large enough for a tiny dog or a cat to creep through. That, I am sure, was a kind thought of nurse’s. When games got too noisy, and little boys and girls were tiring themselves into crossness, she had a way of gathering them into the shelter of the great fire-place, and telling them the most fascinating stories. Some of the tales that are prime nursery-favourites to-day were told, without a doubt, by her “Amme” to Saint Elizabeth when she was a little girl. “The Seven Wild Swans,” “The Sleeping Beauty,” “Clever Else,” “The Fox and the Geese,” and many, many others. Some of the “Lügenmärchen” (of the kind definitely associated in later years with the name of the immortal Munchhausen) go back equally far. Nobody knows, for instance, how old is the legend of “Schlaraffenland”—“the Land of Cockayne”—of which our Middle Irish “Vision of Mac Conglinghe” is an interesting variant.

Young wits were sharpened by guessing riddles. Here are some Thirteenth Century ones, which Saint Elizabeth may have tried to guess:—

“The Full of the Valley, the Full of the Land,

But never the Full of a little girl’s Hand.”

The answer to that must often have lain before her, making her feel, as she stood in her high window-niche in the Kinderstube of the Wartburg, as if she were looking out from a tall ship on a great sea, beneath which towns, and fields, and woods lay buried, and unseen. For it was the Mist—above which the Wartburg, on its high crag, stood upraised.

Here is another which helped little boys and girls (who would presently be studying their “Comput”) to remember the divisions of time.

In my father’s garden stands a tree;

(The year).

Upon it twelve fine branches see.

(The months).

Thirty birds on every bough;

(The days).

Eggs enough for each I trow—

(The hours).

Four-and-twenty in each nest.

Hurry up and guess the rest.

Little stammerers and lispers had their tongues exercised in difficult sound combinations, like our “Three grey geese in a green field grazing.” This one is very old, though I give it in a modern form: “Meiner Mutter Magd macht mir mein Mus mit meiner Mutter Mehl.”

The ceremony of “being put to bed” was not very different in mediæval nurseries from what it is to-day. Mediæval children, like their modern counterparts, probably got cross with sleep, and were naughty, and would not say their prayers or go to bed. And mediæval nurses had to threaten them with the “Wolf,” or the “Man,” the great bogies of the period; and, when they had captured their small refractory charges, they had to coax them into good humour again with rhymes about their little bare toes, or their ten small fingers, like our “this is the one that went to the market.” One comes across these rhymes in grave books of German erudition with the oddest effect.

Before the child went to sleep, of course, he or she had his or her prayers to say. Even the smallest child had to repeat the “Our Father” and the “Apostles’ Creed.” The “Hail Mary” was learned later. The great preacher, Berthold von Regensburg, says that, if a child of seven can say the Ave Maria, as well as the Pater Noster, and the Credo, “daz ist vil wunderguot,” “better than good,” as we say in Anglo-Irish.

Mediæval children commissioned a bigger troup of angels “to guard their bed” than ours do, who are content with a protector for each corner:—“There are four corners on my bed.” Elizabeth claimed twelve angels when she “laid her down to sleep”: “Two at my head, two by my sides, two at my feet, two to cover me, two to waken me, two to show me the way to the Heavenly Kingdom.”

And, if the mediæval child awoke in the night, there was always the night-lamp burning before the Crucifix, or the picture of the dear Mother, just as it burns in so many Catholic homes to-night!

The joys of child-life in the Middle Ages only really began with the spring. We who have, in our comfortable houses, learned to rob winter of his terrors, have paid the price by losing much of that joy in the spring, which is so persistent a note in Middle High German poetry. One must realise how dreary the winter must have been in those mediæval castles to realise the “Wonne des Frühlings”—for mediæval souls—the children’s especially. Think of being shut up in semi-darkness all the winter; for there was no glass in the windows, and if the storms raged (and how they must have raged round the Wartburg!) there was nothing for it but to pull down the heavy wooden shutters, and crouch round the fire for light, and heat, and comfort. And sometimes the fire smoked, for mediæval chimneys did not “draw” well; and how little eyes must have smarted, and young nerves suffered! The heavy clothes, too, one had to wear in those cold draughty rooms must have been a torture to little bodies. No wonder they greeted the spring as the “Freudenzeit.” There was a great ceremony when they went out into the spring woods in search of the first violet. The coming of swallow and stork was treated as a great event. Many games, too, “came in” with the spring; and if a little boy of to-day could, by any chance, have a chat with a little boy of the Middle Ages, he would find that the same rigid convention which makes it impossible for a self-respecting lad to play marbles, when “it is the time” for spinning tops, or to spin tops when “it is the time” for rolling hoops, ruled in the Middle Ages. Except that it was not a “convention” then, but the result of hard necessity. Little girls play jack-stones and skip with ropes to-day at certain seasons, because their small ancestresses of seven or eight hundred years ago were forced to confine these games to this season.

But do modern children get the same delight out of nature that the children of olden times did? Except the story of little Eoin in Mr. Pearse’s exquisite book of studies of Irish childlife, Iosagan, I know of nothing in modern literature that at all reminds one of the glorious passage in which Wolfram describes the effect of the bird-song on his child hero, Parzifal. I wish I could take some dear little boys and girls I know, a-roaming the spring woods with those little German children of so many centuries ago, and see them consult their flower-oracles, and catch butterflies, and bore holes in the birch-tree and drink the sweet sap, and learn to whistle a tune on a leaf, and look for strawberries in the glades. But, alas! space is limited, and I must try to get as much of a wide subject into it as possible.

There is one amusing ceremony I must mention, particularly as it forms a convenient stepping-stone to the next division of my subject. It was a ceremony which lasted quite to the end of the Middle Ages, and fittingly belonged to a period when Grammar, the first of the Seven Liberal Arts, was always represented with a rod. On a certain day in the early summer, mediæval children went out to the woods to cut the rods, which were afterwards to be used with such effect on their own sturdy little persons. The mediæval schoolmaster had no need of a proverb to convince him that to spare the rod was to spoil the child. And even when Walther protests against the abuse of the “Gerte,” he, by no means, desires its abolition.

At the age of seven the boys passed out of the women’s apartments and were given into the hands of a governor. The girls stayed behind with a “Meisterinne”; and it was the custom at princely courts to receive the daughters of the vassals to share the lessons of the Princesses. Thus we know that, among the companions who studied with Elizabeth was her faithful friend of the bitter years to come, Guta.

Though girls and boys were educated separately, it is impossible to separate the ideals of education in the case of the two sexes. In order, indeed, to arrive at any comprehension of the ideals towards which the educators of girls in the Catholic Middle Ages strained, we must strive to realize the mediæval conception of the “verie parfit gentil knight.” For if ever it needed a certain type of woman to help to produce a certain type of man, it was during the Age of Chivalry. Moreover, the Catholic Church, the one great pedagogic authority of the Middle Ages, has always held that Education must concern itself with the Soul as well as the body of man. And “there is no sex in soul” to side with Bishop Spalding against Francis Thompson. The educational ideals held up by the Church before those who set themselves to train her sons, were for those who trained her daughters, too. The knightly virtues, “Staete” and “Maeze” (Steadfastness and Moderation) were womanly virtues, too. The pillars of chivalry, “theumuot” (= Demut, humility), and Treue (fidelity) are the pillars of all true womanhood.

Something of the spirit of the education of the period may be gathered from the definition of the word Zûht (Zucht) in the Middle High German vocabulary: “that lofty culture of the mind, which is a fruit of education, and which expresses itself in outward modesty, inward chastity, self-restraint and self-denial, and in the externals of good breeding.” The chivalrous education aimed at cultivating “Self-Knowledge, Self-Reverence and Self-Control” in a man or woman whose corporal form had been developed to something as nearly approaching the ideal of perfection as possible. And it sought perfection in all things, because of Him Who is Infinite Perfection.

While the boys were undergoing that thorough course of physical training, and practising the Seven “Brumicheiten,” which correspond in the education of the future Knight to the Seven Liberal Arts in the education of the future cleric—riding, swimming, running, jumping, wrestling, shooting with bow and arrow, and hunting—the girls had also their physical exercises, carefully designed to develop the grace of the body. Much attention was paid to deportment. To walk with great strides, to swing one’s arms, to sit with one’s legs crossed, to take the initiative in addressing a strange man, to look at him boldly, to speak loud, to laugh noisily, were all great offences against “Zucht.” A girl was drilled to walk gracefully, with downcast eyes, to hold her mantle on her breast with a certain gesture, to lift her train with another. She had, moreover, to learn to ride, to tame falcons, and to acquire the ritual and language of the chase.

Book-learning for a woman was held of more importance than for a man. Little Elizabeth must have been stirred to great efforts in this direction by her eagerness to read the beautiful psalter which she loved to open in her frequent visits to the chapel. The old chaplain who taught her had no difficulty with her. When she had learned to read, she had a whole new world open to her, which, alas! is closed to us now. For which of us can Natural History have the same appeal, for instance, as for one who studied it in the fascinating pages of the “Physiologus”?

The Middle Ages did not lay a very great stress on the school-room as a factor of education. A great part of the training of boys and girls was got by what I might call the system of “direct apprenticeship to life.” Elizabeth and Agnes were being trained for the noble profession of wife and mother, Christian Châtelaine and great lady. They were early set to acquire the womanly arts and crafts, spinning, and tapestry, and embroidery. In the garden, where sweet-scented flowers and herbs were cultivated, they gathered simples, and made them, under skilled guidance, into unguents and potions. They took their places in the hall, and had the privilege of hearing the best poetry the period produced. They followed the direction of the great world-currents of the century from the talk of the travellers who claimed the Wartburg hospitality—returned crusaders, and pilgrims, or wandering scholars from some of the universities which were just then springing up. And once upon a time two men came to the Wartburg, two men in grey habits, with bare feet and a cord around their waist. And the story they had to tell was of the “Poor Little Man” of Assisi, their master! Oh! story to be remembered by Elizabeth through all her life!

It was never the custom of Duchess Sophia to keep her girls shut up in the women’s apartments. We are constantly meeting her and them, making the long descent from the Wartburg to the town of Eisenach. Sometimes it would be to take their part in a church festival; sometimes, perhaps, to listen to the preaching of a “Kreuzzug prediger,” and sometimes for that direct training in Christian Charity, which was so characteristic of the Middle Ages. There was no hiding away of the poor in those days in their own slums. They displayed themselves, and their sores, and their nakedness at the doors of Princes, and claimed the noblest as their servants. So Duchess Sophia and her girls went into the huts of the poorest, and tended them like sisters.

And all this time the great realities of life were playing their part in Elizabeth’s education. She had hardly been two years in the Wartburg when the dreadful news of her mother’s assassination was brought to her. Was she too young, little six-year-old girl that she was, fully to understand?

But on the Saint Sylvester Day of the year 1216, another blow befell, not her alone, but all those who dwelt on the Wartburg—young Hermann, her betrothed, died suddenly, and amid the wailing of the “Media Vita,” which surrounded the bier of his son, Duke Hermann lost his reason. For a year he sat in darkness and the shadow of death, murmuring ever the terrible psalm: “In the Midst of Life we are in Death.” He died in the year following, 1217. He was laid to rest in the convent he had founded, and young Ludwig reigned in his stead.

What was to become of Elizabeth? There were many who said, “let her be sent back to her father. The Arpad rule is weakening in Hungary, as witness Queen Gertrude’s murder. Her dowry, too, hath never been paid in full.” Duchess Sophia was of this way of thinking. She was nervous and irritable after the terrible strain of her husband’s illness, and the shock of her son’s death.

But there were two people who were determined that justice should be done to the little stranger, who had left home and kindred, on the promise of becoming, one day, Landgräfin of Thuringia. One of these two was old Walther of Varilla, who had brought her from her Hungarian home, and watched over her tenderly ever since.

The other was Landgraf Ludwig, into whose heart she had stolen, all unknown, when she was a tiny girl; and whose chivalrous soul could not bear to inflict an ignominy on her.

So it came to pass that, in the Burgkapelle, whither Elizabeth had turned so often from her play, she stood one day with her hand in Ludwig’s, and plighted her eternal troth.

CECILIA GONZAGA

A Little Italian Schoolgirl of the Renaissance

Part I.—A Dominican Educationist.

It was ever the custom of that most excellent Lord, Gianfrancesco Gonzaga, when he was home from his wars, to spend the hour before supper with his wife, and their children, in a fair loggia on a garden terrace overlooking the Mincio. Here, while the evening breeze came, cool from the lakes, and perfumed from the gardens, he tasted the delights of family life, and rested from the cares of War and State in the gentle atmosphere, which surrounded his pious and cultured Lady, Madonna Paola Malatesta.

Those who visit Mantua to-day may see, in the heart of its old Castello, in the celebrated Sala degli Sposi, just such another family scene, painted in fresco by Mantegna. It shows, it is true, a later generation of Gonzagas. Stately Marchese Lodovico, who sits in patriarchal dignity by the side of his wife, Marchesa Barbara, surrounded by their children and grandchildren, is, in the group I would fain conjure up for you, but a boy. At the risk of ruining the poetry of the scene, I must tell you that he is an extremely fat boy—oh! of a fatness, out of which he is to be presently most vigorously educated! His eight-year-old brother, Carlo, having outgrown his strength, is, on the other hand, far too lank and thin. But for the others, you are at liberty to call up the images of the dearest youngsters of your acquaintance. Margherita, a charming maiden of thirteen summers, whose betrothal to Leonello of Este, the heir of Marchese Niccolò of Ferrara, is already spoken of, might resent being called a “youngster.” But Gianlucido and Alessandro are tiny children; and golden-haired Cecilia, the flower of the flock, has reached the mature age of three!

This was the scene which met the eye of that most distinguished educationist, Vittorino da Feltre, who had come at the invitation of the Capitano of Mantua to undertake the education of these children; and as his eye fell upon it, he may well have felt all the doubts, that had ridden with him through all the long miles from Venice, suddenly depart. Indeed he had done well to come. Surely it was a task well worthy of a man’s noblest energies, to train up these fair children, and to make of them the men and women, in whom the Christian Humanist sees his ideals realised.

Who had been responsible for bringing Vittorino da Feltre to Mantua? Who had suggested to that bluff soldier, Gianfrancesco, eager to give his children all the benefits of the “New Learning,” for which Italy was madly athirst, the choice of a teacher, who was as great a Christian as he was a scholar and an educationist?

The accepted story is that Guarino, the great Greek scholar, being unable to accept the Gonzagas’ offer, himself, passed it on to his friend, Vittorino da Feltre. But I have my own good reasons for thinking that the choice of Vittorino was something more than a “pis aller,” and that Madonna Paola herself was mainly responsible for it.

The grand-daughter of that Carlo Malatesta (who took so much to heart the Gospel precepts of sacrificing whatever gives scandal—be it a man’s own right eye, or right hand—that he had, during his guardianship of a Gonzaga minor, thrown into the lake, at Mantua, a statue of Virgil, to which he found the people paying idolatrous reverence), her girlhood had been spent in Rimini, as great in repentance as in crime. Rimini hath other memories besides that of Francesca; and Madonna Paola, in the very year[9] when the fate of her kinswoman, Parisina, at the hands of her husband, Marquis Nicholas of Ferrara, recalled, but too exactly, the story heard by Dante in the Second Circle of the Inferno, may well have turned to one of them for comfort. During the years of her girlhood, Rimini was the scene of the labours of the great Dominican reformer, the Blessed Giovanni Dominici. This remarkable man was a great friend of her grandfather, and we may well assume that his book, the “Regola del Governo di Cura famigliare,” though dedicated to a Florentine lady, Madonna Bartolommea, wife of Antonio Alberti (and kinswoman of the celebrated Leo Battista Alberti) was not unknown to those who had charge of Paola’s education, and, very probably, represented one of the very strongest influences of her girlhood. If this be so, it is impossible to see nothing more than a mere chance in the selection of a teacher who had already made a name for himself by a system of education exactly corresponding to that outlined in Dominici’s treatise. In studying the Renaissance, we are under a great disadvantage from the fact that its best known interpreters are generally quite incapable of appreciating the force and vivacity of religion during it. Symonds, and Burckhardt, and Settenbrini, setting out to prove Michelet’s theory that “the Renaissance was a discovery of the World and Man,” reject and misinterpret anything that contradicts it. The Middle Ages must be made as dark, and stagnant, and evil-smelling as possible—the “Dead Sea” indeed of Symonds; and the guiding principle of the Middle Ages, the Catholic Religion, must be a Spirit of Darkness—otherwise, what becomes of the theory? Poor Humanity, according to Symonds, had a cowl put on it by the Obscurantist Church, and was bidden to look neither “on the azure of the waters, nor the luxuriance of the vines, nor the radiance of the mountains with their robe of sun and snow.” And so, with downcast eyes, it passed on its way, knowing nothing but that “beauty is a snare, pleasure a sin, the world a fleeting show, man fallen and lost, death the only certainty, judgment inevitable, hell everlasting, heaven hard to win, ignorance acceptable to God.” “These,” we were told, were the “fixed ideas of the mediæval Church.”

I have no intention of refuting this palpably absurd rendering of the Catholic outlook, nor is there much necessity, for, fortunately, true history is coming into her own. In Germany she has made her first conquests; and here, thinking of men like Janssen, and Pastor, and Emil Michael, and praying to see go forth one day from the Lecture Halls of our Irish Universities, reapers to follow them into the fields that stand ready for the sickle; I cannot but rejoice at the bright prospects of a great Irish publishing house, which shall do for Irish savants, what Herder did for those of Germany.

As long as historians like Symonds interpreted the Renaissance for us, it was inevitable that we should be shown only a small part of it—just as much as would fit comfortably into the Michelet formula. Moreover, Symonds and his fellows really did not know Catholicism when they saw it. Between involuntary ignorance, and deliberate “suppressiones veri,” they have managed to give us a very untruthful picture of the Renaissance.

It is with something like a gasp of wonder we turn to the complete picture presented by Dr. Pastor. Here, side by side with belated Pagans, like the “Panormita,” and Lorenzo Valla, we see true Christian Savants like Gianozzo Manetti, Lionardo Bruni, Ambrogio Traversari, and our own Vittorino; side by side with monsters like Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta we have Christian rulers like the good Duke Frederick of Urbino; side by side with social butterflies like poor Beatrice of Este, we have devoted mothers of families like Madonna Paola; side by side with the celebrated sinners, we have the canonized saints, a long, long list of them. I believe, indeed, that, at no period of their history, have the two great Orders of St. Francis and St. Dominic shown themselves so fruitful in Saints, as that across which Symonds would fain have us see written the “I follow the finite” of Cosimo de’ Medici.

As a result of this treatment of the period, many of its most characteristic works have been hidden away from us. So it has come to pass that, while most students of Italian Literature know a great deal about a book like “Il Trattato del Governo della Famiglia,” if only because the question of its authorship has been so hotly debated, even those who hold for the paternity of Leo Battista Alberti, as against Pandolfini, may very well be unaware of the existence of the “Regola del Governo di Cura Famigliare,” dedicated to Leo Battista’s kinswoman, Bartolommea.

If anything were wanting to prove how much alike is Catholicism in all ages and nations, one would only have to put this little book, written five hundred years ago, for a Florentine lady, into the hands of an Irish Catholic mother of to-day, and see how much of it she can use for herself. Practically all of it, we should find.

“You have offered yourself,” the author says to Bartolommea, “body and soul, with all your possessions and your children, as far as they belong to you, to God, Our Lord, and now you want to know how to make the best use of all these things for His glory.” Thus, with the precision of the schoolman, he states and divides his subject. The first book, then, tells how to use the powers of the soul for God; the second, the faculties and senses of the body; the third, temporal goods. The fourth book tells how children are to be trained, and is, indeed, a most thorough treatise on Education.

Children are to be brought up (1) for God, (2) for father and mother, (3) for themselves, (4) for their country, (5) for the trials of life. Again, you see the schoolman, and admire the method. Can anything be more admirable than this summing up of the whole end and aim of Catholic Education, which takes account of the child in his future relations as Christian, member of a family, individual with an individual’s responsibilities for the investment of his talents (the faculties of soul and body), citizen, and man?

Then, with an astonishing feeling for realities, he prescribes the practical method by which this end shall be attained.

“You are bringing up your child for God. Therefore, let the thought of God await his first consciousness. For such as him, God became a Little Child. Show him that Little Child; have His image and that of Saint John in your homes, and let your baby make a playmate of Jesukin. (Does that not make one think a little of Iosagan playing with the children along the stone ditches of the Connemara roads?) For the girl have pictures of the girl-saints: Agnes with her lamb; Elizabeth and Cecilia with their roses; and Catherine with her wheel. But if you cannot afford to have these pictures in your homes (for those were not the days of colour printing and lithography) be sure to bring the little ones often to the Church, and let them see them there.”

I like to think that a great master, painting in those years, had a thought of dear, little, chubby, dark-eyed boys and girls being taken, one of the days soon to follow, into the church, when the masterpiece should be hanging in its place, and making friends with his “Bambino.”

Not by “sight” alone shall you teach your little ones to know God. “While they lie against your breast, and you feed them with your own substance, feed their souls with the sweetness of the love of Jesus, that wells first from your own heart; let the first words they utter be: ‘Jesus, Ave Maria, Deo Gratias, Pater noster qui es in coelo.’

“Have a little altar for the children,” the author counsels, “and teach them the different colours and the different vestments for the several festivals. Let them ring the ‘Hours’ with their own small bell. Nor were it ill done to let them preach to you; to the which preaching do you listen with all due attention and reverence. So shall they learn more easily, and more exactly, their Christian Doctrine, and you will have an opportunity of judging what progress they are really making in it.”

Dominici loves to see the young things gambol about. “As for games,” he says, “let them run and jump, and gambol and play”—but never so as to scare away the little playmate, Jesukin. He throws in a word of warning about the choice of their companions among the neighbour’s children.

Dominici is not in favour of sending children to the schools, as things then were. (It must be remembered that he was engaged in a work of reform among those responsible for those schools.) He advises the mother to teach the children as much as she can at home herself. Here the question of what they should study meets him. Is it safe to let their young and innocent minds come into contact with pagan morality? He strongly regrets the old days and the old ways. Our ancestors were wiser. First they taught the Psalter, and Sacred Doctrine. Then, if the child was to go further: the Morality of Cato, the Fictions of Aesop, the profitable wisdom of Prospero (i.e., certain “sentences” taken from the works of Saint Augustine); the Fidei Confessio of Bœthius; the philosophy of the “Eva Columello,”[10] the “Tres leo Naturas”[11]; and to help them to memorize the Sacred Story, the poem “Aethiopium Terras.”

He was writing this book for a woman who had known much trouble, who had seen her husband’s family driven into exile by the Medici. It behoves her then to rear up her children in the possession of that liberty of which no Cosimo can dispossess them—the liberty which is in the heart of every true man who has emancipated his Will from the thraldom of his passions. Again and again, he returns to this point: train their will. Teach them to know Good from Evil, and to choose good. No man can be free who is not free from these three things: free from sin, free from vengeance, free from debt. Nor can a man be free whose soul is in bondage to the appetites of his body. Rear your children hardily; so shall they have no fear of future evil fortune. Again he goes into detail: “Teach them to eat bitter things, lest too great daintiness be their undoing.” And again: “if they are sick, do not show them too much compassion, for so shall you take from them the opportunity of practising patience.”

Be careful with whom your children associate. “None of the things entrusted to you are so precious as your children. Their souls are worth more in God’s eyes than Heaven and Earth, and the whole of the irrational creation; and you do Him a greater service in bringing up your children well than if you possessed the whole world, and gave all away to the poor.”

When treating of the relation of the child to his parents, Dominici lays great stress on the observance of those outward forms, which express the reverence due from him to them. In the presence of parents, children shall not sit down unless desired to do so; they must stand in a respectful attitude, humbly bow the head when any command is addressed to them, and uncover when they meet their father or mother. “Twice a day at least shall they kneel and beg your blessing. The child must say: ‘Benedicite,’ and you shall answer: ‘May God bless thee with an everlasting blessing,’ or ‘may the blessing of God be always with thee.’ And let the child, kneeling to ask a blessing from you, remind you to ask a blessing from your Father who is in Heaven—not twice a day only, but as often as you change your occupation.”

Very noble are the precepts he gives Madonna Bartolommea, to whom Florence had shown herself, indeed, but an unkind stepmother. “You owe your child to your country. Therefore, teach him the duties of a good citizen, and morning and evening let him pray for the Patria.” Those are precepts we in Ireland might follow with profit.

I have lingered a little on the educational theories of the great Dominican, because many of them were put in practice in the school which Vittorino da Feltre founded at Mantua, under the protection of the Gonzagas that it is almost unthinkable that Vittorino and Madonna Paola were not directly influenced by it. We shall now see these theories in practice.

Part II.—La Casa Giocosa.

On the banks of the Mincio, the Gonzagas, very splendid even in their Condottiere days, had built a stately Pleasure House, which (for reasons on which it pleases certain historians yet to dispute) they called the “Casa Giocosa”—the “Joyous House,” if you care to translate it thus.

When Vittorino da Feltre came to Mantua, it would seem that the two elder of the Gonzaga boys were already being educated in this house. The Court School, where the sons of the reigning house and of the gentlemen in their service were educated, was an old European institution. The Palace Schools of Charlemagne are notable examples.

No trace of the “Casa Giocosa” is now to be found. Even its situation is a matter of uncertainty; but it has been described for us so often, and so vividly, that we need but to close our eyes, and there it stands again on broad meadow lands, that sweep down to the “slow-gliding Mincio,” in the midst of its fair lawns and terraced gardens, with its avenues of acacias and plane trees, its hedges of roses, its shady courts and fountains and statues, its marble “loggie,” and frescoed, spacious chambers, full of air and sunshine—a memory and an inspiration for all the schools that have followed it since.

Now, if ever there was a man who was that rare thing, a schoolmaster born, it was Vittorino da Feltre. He had discovered his vocation in his student days at the University of Padua, where he had kept body and soul together by teaching backward students, and helping them to keep up with their classes. He had developed it at Venice, where he had shared the management of a school with the great Greek scholar, Guarino. But at Mantua, whither he came, a ripe man of forty-five or so, with a large experience of boy-nature, a thorough mastery of methods of teaching, a store of well-tested theories, and a new field on which to exercise them, he was like a prince coming into his own kingdom. There seems something providential in the way things were arranged for Vittorino da Feltre. One is reminded of the Providence which we shall see in a later paper, surrounding the foundation of another great educational institution—Madame de Maintenon’s Saint-Cyr.

One condition Vittorino made before he took over the “Casa Giocosa.” He was to be supreme master in the establishment. Even the parents were not to interfere, and there was to be no appeal from his decision, whether as to the studies of the children, their food and manner of life, or their companions. On the last point, he was destined to meet with grave opposition. Some families claimed it as one of their immemorial privileges to send their children to the Court School, to be educated with the Princes. But, privilege or no privilege, Vittorino would tolerate nobody at the school whose example was likely to be harmful. Here you see him putting into practice one of the most constantly reiterated of the precepts of the Blessed Giovanni Dominici: “Be careful of your children’s companions.”

Not alone of the companions of the Princes was he careful, but of the servants. It would seem that when Vittorino took over the “Casa Giocosa,” he found a whole troup of liveried menials ready to minister to the slightest wish of the young Princes. His first care was to send them all off, replacing them by a few trustworthy attendants, not numerous enough to make discipline difficult. He put porters at the gate, on whom he could rely, wishing to secure for his school the atmosphere of quiet, and work, and prayer, and order, and wholesome austerity in which the young souls confided to him might grow to their full perfection. The vicinity of a splendid court made his precautions all the more necessary.

With the troops of servants disappeared the soft carpets, and luxurious couches, the gold and silver plate, and, above all, the rich foods which were playing such havoc with poor Lodovico’s figure—not to speak of anything else. Everything was to be plain and wholesome and abundant, but there was to be no luxury. Had not the Blessed Giovanni warned Madonna Bartolommea against rearing her children too softly? “Rear them hardily” had been his advice. “Teach them to eat bitter food and things unpleasant,” so shall they be able to say “we care not” when life is hard with them in the years to come.

The little picture-children for whom Dominici pleads, that Madonna Bartolommea’s boys and girls may make friendship with them early, were not forgotten by Vittorino. Be sure, when, at his request, Madonna Paola sent her painter to cover the walls of the study-halls and galleries with “frescoes of children playing,” the tiny Jesukin, and dear Saint John, who was as an elder brother to Him, were to be seen there, playing together—in the carpenter’s shop, mayhap, when Elizabeth had taken her boy to Nazareth to visit his small cousin, or by the covered well under the palm-tree in Zachary’s garden, when the sweet spring days had called Mary and her bambino to the hill-country.

Poor Lodovico must have felt the change rather hard at first. He had been accustomed to get up whatever time he liked, do as little as he pleased, and have his interest aroused by nothing except questions of eating and drinking. One really thinks there must have been something diseased in poor Lodovico’s extraordinary appetite. Our ancestors would have seen in him a fellow victim of Cathal MacFinguine, King of Munster, in whom there entered the Demon of Gluttony through eating the apples, whereon the Scholar of Fergal, son of Maelduin, had put his heathen charms, “so that the demon abode in the throat of Cathal, to the ruin of the men of Munster during three half-years; and it is likely he would have ruined Ireland during another half-year.”

At all events, Vittorino took Lodovico in hand at once. He was only allowed to eat at mealtimes; but at first his meals were set at short intervals, and there was no stint on the quantity of food; which, however, was as plain as possible, so that the appetite should not be over-stimulated.

Gradually, the meals became fewer, and Vittorino, discovering that Lodovico’s voracity was as much the result of an empty mind and starved interests as anything else, had the inspiration to accompany them with little entertainments. He had singers, and musicians, and storytellers placed in the dining-hall; and, lo! Lodovico, listening to them, forgot his plate, for the nonce, and did not notice the loss of it, when an attendant, on a sign from Vittorino, bore it quietly away.

With Carlo, the second son, the master pursued quite a different plan. Carlo was growing too fast, and spending his energies too rapidly in the ardour which he put into his games. Vittorino saw to it that the boy should have as much to eat as he wished at meal times. Between meals he had permission to eat, too—but only bread.

His attention to the food of his pupils and to their bodily welfare give the key to Vittorino’s whole educational system. The “Mens sana in corpore sano,” is as an educational ideal, not the exclusive possession of the Greeks. I have tried to show how vitally it influenced education in the Middle Ages; but, undoubtedly, Vittorino found new ardour for his pursuit of it in the image of the “Academy,” which his Greek studies had conjured up for him, and kept constantly before his mind.

But the little boys and girls, for whom Vittorino was going to assume responsibility, had something more than a body and a mind to be developed. They had each an immortal soul. The recognition of that fact must, logically, alter any system of education, not founded on it, into something very different. And so the Christian school of Mantua, forming colonists for this world, and citizens for heaven, was something essentially different from the Platonic Academy, however much it may have borrowed from it.

The strengthening and developing of body, and mind, and soul—that is, in a few words, what the whole system of Vittorino aimed at. It is in the harmonious ordering of the different studies and exercises, which he chose for the perfecting of the three parts of men, that the chief excellence of the “Casa Giocosa” consists.

“You are rearing your children for God,” the Blessed Giovanni reminded Madonna Bartolommea. Vittorino never forgot this for a moment, nor did he ever allow his pupils to forget that they had been “created and placed” in this world by God, “to know Him, love Him, and serve Him, and by that means to gain Everlasting Life.”

The common day began with hearing Mass in the school chapel. After Mass, the Office of Our Lady was recited, and a short instruction in some point of Christian Doctrine was given to the school. But this teaching was not theoretic only. He taught them not only what Christians must believe, but showed them how Christians must act. And so we find his pupils, in the after years, distinguished, among all the men and women of Italy, by their practical Christianity. Lodovico, once the self-indulgent, grew into the Marchese Lodovico, chaste and sober, and wise and kind—the best of the Gonzaga Princes. Little Frederick Montefeltro, sent as a hostage to the Mantuan Court, rejoiced, in the years when men spoke of him as the “Good Duke of Urbino,” that the chances of war had brought him such good fortune as to make him the pupil of such a master. Ever before his eyes he would have that master’s image, and as much as might be, he would carry out his system of life in the order of the Ducal Palace. So Vittorino’s portrait adorned one of the walls of the famous palace, with these words written under it: “In honour of his saintly master, Vittorino da Feltre, who by word and example, instructed him in all human excellence, Frederico, has set this here.” And better still, “the Court of Urbino was framed on the precepts which the Duke had learnt in the Casa Giocosa, and became in its turn a school where Italian princes sent their sons to be trained in knightly exercises and elegant manners.” And so we trace, in a direct line of descent from the “Casa Giocosa,” “the best book that was ever written upon good breeding,” as Doctor Johnson testified to Boswell: “‘Il Cortegiano’—the best book, I tell you, and you should read it.” An advice which one could not do better than repeat.

In an age when men lied and deceived shamelessly, Vittorino’s pupils were known for their absolute sincerity. This love of truth and hatred of falsehood was not won without careful efforts on the part of the master. He would not punish for a fault that was bravely confessed, and so took away one of the occasions of lying from timid children. A funny little story is told of Alessandro Gonzaga. The little fellow was ill, and had been ordered not to drink any water. But he was horribly thirsty, and disobeyed the commands. There was no great danger of being “found out,” but the boy was uneasy, until he had confessed. “Do you know what I did?” he said to Vittorino. “I took a big, big drink of water. Wasn’t I very good?” “Well,” said Vittorino, seeing that it could not be helped now, “at least, you were very good to tell it.”

He never allowed his pupils to utter a profane word. When Carlo was quite grown up, he swore a soldier’s oath in his master’s presence. And lo! the little man was upon him in an instant, boxing his ears, as if he were still a schoolboy. To the honour of Carlo, it must be said that he bore the indignity meekly, feeling that he had deserved it.

Like Dominici, Vittorino loved to see the children run about, and laugh, and leap, and play. He found two of them, during recreation hour one day, confabbing in a corner about their lessons. Do you think he was pleased? Not a bit of it. Out he routed them, and made them take part in the other children’s games. For, long before the English Duke, he had found out for himself that many a battle yet to be fought was being won already on those meadows by the Mincio, where his pupils were playing merrily.

One of the outstanding features in Vittorino’s system was the importance he attached to games—and all sorts of physical exercises. He held as a fundamental principle that “the human spirit cannot exercise its faculties fully, if the physical organs which it must use are defective.” He insisted on outdoor exercise, whatever the weather. He had his pupils taught riding, and swimming, and wrestling, and fencing. He organised hunting and fishing expeditions for them; and, remembering that many of his pupils were to be soldiers, he liked to teach them the art of warfare, by occupying mimic trenches, and pitching mimic camps, and taking mimic towns—according to the most approved methods.

These rougher plays were not for the girls, though they, in general, shared the lessons of the boys. For them there were dancing lessons, where every movement of their body was trained to an exquisite grace. They had riding lessons, too, and hunted and played “palla,” or tennis. No game was tolerated for them which would tend to make them ungraceful—as so many of the games our girls play to-day really seem to do.

Plenty of fresh air and exercise, plenty of good, simple food, to which they brought the sauce of a healthy hunger, sound and dreamless sleep, soon made the youngsters of the “Casa Giocosa” a healthy, happy band, whom it was a delight to see at their lessons.

He had the supreme gift of the good teacher, our Vittorino, that of knowing how to interest his pupils in their work. The maxim of Quintilian “do not allow the boy to conceive an aversion for the studies which he cannot yet love,” was adopted by him, and, until the young minds were ripe enough to love learning for its own sake, it was the master’s care to surround it with attractions. So we find him reviving the Quintilianian device of teaching the youngsters to read by means of painted cards and wooden blocks. As we have seen already, our Irish ancestors had a similar plan. In Whitley Stokes’ “Lives of the Irish Saints from the Book of Lismore,” there is a charming story of Saint Columbkille, as a child, learning his letters from a cake, on which they had been stamped.

In Vittorino’s school there was no place for the rod, which we have seen play such an important part in the mediæval school-system. He liked to appeal to the children through their sense of honour and dignity. The greatest punishment for such children was to make them feel ashamed.

As far as school-work went, however, there was little need for punishment. The enthusiasm for letters which had seized on all Italy had taken possession of the little people of the “Casa Giocosa” in an extraordinary degree; and in some cases, especially that of Gianlucido, the master’s care was rather to restrain than to urge them on. That great scholar, Ambrogio Traversari, General of the Camaldolese Order, writing to his friend, the celebrated Niccolò Nicoli, mentioned the boy’s marvellous achievements in Latin and Greek. On the occasion of a later visit, which he described for the great Cosimo de’ Medici, he listened to a Latin poem of about two hundred verses, wherein Gianlucido celebrated the coming of the Emperor Sigismund to Mantua.

That same letter to Cosimo makes mention of Cecilia, whom, perhaps, my readers think I have left too long undistinguished, among the band of merry children, playing by the Mincio. “There is also a daughter of the Marquis[12] at the school,” writes Ambrogio, “who, though only ten years’ old, writes Greek with such elegance that, I am ashamed to acknowledge, scarcely any of my own pupils can approach it.” This tribute, indeed, hardly does full credit to Cecilia’s astonishing attainments. At eight years old, we are told, she read the works of Saint John Chrysostom, and wrote elegant Latin verses. She had begun the study of Greek at the mature age of six.

Nor did she excel less in the feminine arts, on which her master’s educational system laid such stress. Those little, high-born, Italian girls learned to dance almost as soon as they learned to walk, and a suggestion of the music which accompanied their early dancing lessons lingered in every graceful movement. Music, too, was as general as speech, and the child learned it as naturally. But, general as it was, it was never cheapened by being wedded to unworthy words. When a little girl learned to sing, there was food for her intellect in the lesson, too; for, in those days, men set sonnets of Petrarch and passages from Virgil to music, and the lute made a charming accompaniment.

The “speaking” voice was even more carefully trained than the “singing” voice. To quote from the delightful “Life of Vittorino da Feltre” in the Saint Nicholas Series: “the greatest trouble was taken with the cultivation of the voice, the manner of breathing, pronunciation, and all the other details which go to make up an easy and elegant delivery.... Like the ancient Romans, the master attached to this exercise a certain hygienic value.” It was a rare treat to hear Cecilia, in that golden voice of hers, declaim some of her own verses.

It is worth while to examine, in some detail, the system which led to such astonishing results.

Those painted cards and blocks, of which I have spoken, had been designed to teach the child to read Latin. The thing was not so surprising in those days as it would be in ours. As a matter of fact, it was as short a step towards the “unknown from the known” (the safest of pedagogic principles) to teach a child, whose mother-tongue was the speech of Lombardy, to read Latin, as to teach him or her to read Italian. So the children learned to read Latin very young indeed. Unless Cecilia was an exception, they learned to read Greek very young, too. The practice was to translate Greek into Latin.

Later on, the pupils took up the study of Grammar. The rules of Latin Grammar were deduced from a careful study of the works of Virgil and Cicero, while those of Greek were formulated while the pupils studied Homer and Demosthenes. The barbarous system, from which we are just emerging, which made the study of grammatical rules precede all else, was the unfortunate discovery of the century following Vittorino’s.

History was studied in the pages of Sallust, Valerius Maximus, and Livy.

Vittorino’s practice was to make his pupils read aloud, insisting on good pronunciation and artistic delivery. He made them learn off by heart, too, the best passages of the poets, orators, and philosophers. And so the children had faultless models to hand, when it was time for them to address themselves to original composition.

To balance any tendency this practice might have had to make his pupils adopt other people’s thoughts ready-made, he put them through a very thorough course of mental gymnastics. He aimed, with these exercises, to win for his pupils rather strength and vigour of mentality than subtilty. “I want to teach them to think, and not to split hairs,” expresses a pedagogic maxim of his, of which all his biographers have taken note. He made the youngsters propose difficulties to him, or raised them himself for them, and helped them to solve them. The Mathematical training given in the “Casa Giocosa” was the best in all Italy. At none of the Universities were Mathematics taught in a manner so profitable, or their educative value so fully realised.

When the children were a little older they took part in certain oratorical exercises, the idea of which the master had borrowed from the “Schools of Rhetoric” of Antiquity. Many of these boys would, in the years to come, be employed in Diplomatic Missions, and nothing could more fittingly prepare them for such work than these “Disputations.”

Such, in broadest outline, was the education which made of Cecilia Gonzaga, at the age of sixteen, one of the most charming and accomplished ladies in all Italy. Many a princely suitor came riding over the long bridge of San Giorgio to lay his hand and heart at the feet of the Marchese’s golden-haired girl, whose beauty and attainments had set their poets singing. One, in particular, found favour with her father—Oddantonio of Montefeltro, elder brother of that Frederico who had been Cecilia’s fellow-pupil at the “Casa Giocosa.” Oddantonio saw Cecilia, for the first time, on the occasion of Margherita’s marriage with Leonello of Este, fell in love with her immediately, and formally asked for her hand six weeks later. The alliance proposed was one that offered immense political advantages to the House of Gonzaga, and the Marchese eagerly accepted it, though the reputation of his prospective son-in-law was none of the best. In the off-hand way fathers had in those days, when it was a question of arranging their daughters’ matrimonial affairs, the Marquis sent for Cecilia one day, and told her to hold herself ready to be married.

But another Lover than Oddantonio had won Cecilia for Himself. The little Jesukin, with Whom she had played her childish games, Who, grown to manhood, had changed the water of the old philosophies into the wine of truth for her drinking, Who had sanctified the dust of the earth’s materialism because His Feet had touched it, and made the World a Sacred Place because He had died in it, was the Beloved of her heart.

As Magdalene, on a day, had broken the “alabaster box of precious ointment,” and anointed His Feet therewith, so, too, was Cecilia ready to pour out at His Feet all the treasures of heart, and mind, and soul, which Vittorino’s teaching had helped her to gather; as Magdalene spent the beauty of her hair to wipe the Feet she had anointed, so, too, was Cecilia ready to lay down her beauty for His dear sake.

Not many yards from the Castello of Mantua was a Convent of the Poor Clares, founded by Madonna Paola. Here was the abode which her Beloved had chosen for her, and here He offered her the habit which Francis had bestowed on Clare, the rope-girdle, the coarse veil. Oddantonio’s jewels and gifts, the satins and laces, and cloth of gold in which he would have decked his bride, were dross in the eyes of her, whose chosen ornaments were the jewels of Madonna Poverty.

When she announced her intention of becoming a Clarice to her father, his rage knew no bounds. One blushes to tell it (for Gianfrancesco, with all his faults, has a way of making us like him), but it must be told: he actually used physical violence to the poor girl to compel her to do what she was told. But steadfast as Clare herself, Cecilia stood firm, finding a little comfort in the unfailing sympathy of her mother and her teacher.

For two years the struggle lasted—Vittorino and Paola managing, between them, to dissuade the Marquis from forcing on his daughter’s marriage with a Prince, whose name was beginning to be in all men’s mouths as that of a notorious libertine. It may well be that Gianfrancesco was a little ashamed of himself when he was forced to recognise the true character of his chosen son-in-law. But ashamed or not, he was no more ready to see his brilliant girl bury herself in a Poor Clare’s Cell. To the last, he refused his permission for her entrance into religion; and Cecilia, fearing to bring disaster on the Convent she had chosen, was forced to acquiesce.

But a day came when Gianfrancesco had power to make his will felt no longer—a day when he lay very still and cold on a bier of black velvet, and was borne to his tomb in San Francesco.

Curiously enough, the Church wherein the great Marchese lay buried was part of the Convent Cecilia had been so anxious to make her home. Nothing stood in the way of the accomplishment of her heart’s desire now; and so it came to pass that the Vows he had so long refused to allow his daughter to take were uttered over Marchese Gianfrancesco’s tomb.