Category: Uncategorized

  • Saint Evin of Monasterevin, December 22

    December 22 is the feast of Saint Evin, founder of Monasterevin, County Louth. Below is an excerpt from an early twentieth-century paper submitted to the Journal of the County Kildare Archaeological Society. The author was a member of the landed aristocratic class, for at this time it was commonplace for local antiquarian societies to enjoy the active patronage of the great and the good. In her article the Countess of Drogheda takes the story of Monasterevin up to the seventeenth century, but I have omitted the later history in order to focus on Saint Evin.  There is a link to the online source for the journal at the end of the post so if you wish to keep reading you can continue at the Internet Archive:

    MONASTEREVIN.

    By the COUNTESS OF DROGHEDA

    THE town of Monasterevin derives its name from the monastery founded there by St. Evin or Emhin in the sixth century. It is said that St. Abban had preceded St. Evin in remote times, and had founded a monastic house; but it was St. Evin who brought a number of monks from his native province of Munster, and the place which had previously been called Bos-Glas, which means the Green Wood, now came to be called Bos-Glas-na-Muimneachy or Bos-Glas of the Munster men.

    Colgan thus writes of St. Evin —

    “Saint Evin betook himself to Leinster, and at the bank of the River Barrow he raised a noble monastery, called in that age Ros-Glas, and which, from the number of monks who followed the man of God from his own country of Munster, was called Ros-Glas of the Munster men.

    This holy man was famous for many and great miracles, and the monastery on account of the reverence paid to its first founder, stood in so great honour with posterity, that it was held a most safe sanctuary, and no one presumed to offer violence or injury to the holy place, who did not soon afterwards suffer the severity of the Divine vengeance.”

    It was also said that after his death there was a bell belonging to St. Evin ” which was held in so great veneration that posterity were accustomed to swear on it as a kind of inviolable oath, and to conclude controversies by the virtue of this oath.”

    St. Molua of Clonfert (4th Aug.) speaks of ” having visited the Abbot of St. Evin in his monastery not far from the Barrow, which that most holy man, St. Abban, had originally founded.”

    The year of St. Evin’s death is not recorded anywhere; but his festival was held on the 22nd of December, and his death probably occurred in the sixth century. St. Evin wrote a Life of  St Patrick, partly in Latin and partly in Irish ; and it is said to contain many more details of St. Patrick’s life and mission than there are in any other Life of the Saint. In the Calendar of Angus he is called ” Pure Emhin from the brink of the dumb Barrow.” The well that springs at a little distance from the present mansion was in all probability originally St. Evin’s well.

    The precise period at which the original Monastery of St. Evin fell into decay is not known; probably it was amongst the many religious houses that suffered from the depredations of the Danes in the ninth and tenth centuries. The “Annals of Clonmacnoise,” at the paragraph chronicling the year 1002,
    well describes the work of destrnction perpetrated by these infidel hordes in these words —

    “The whole realme was overrunn by the Danes. The Churches, Abbeys, and other religious places were by them quite razed and destroyed, or otherwise turned to base and servile purposes.

    “Almost all the gentlemen of any account were turned out of their Lands. Yea, some of the best sort were compelled to servitude and bounden slavery. Indeed it was strange how men of any fashion could use other men as the Danes did use the Irish men at that time. But King Bryan Borua was a Salve to cure such sores: all the physick in the world could not help it elsewhere: in a short time he banished the Danes; made up the Churches and Religious houses; restored the people to their antient possessions, and, in fine, brought all to a notable reformation.”

    Some years later the monastery having again become ruined, it was refounded towards the close of the twelfth century by Dermod O’Dempsey, Lord of Offaly, as a Cistercian Monastery, and called Ros-Glas or de Rosea alle.

    The Charter of Foundation of the monastery was as follows : —

    “Dermot O’Dempsey, King of Offaly, to all his nobles, clergy, and laity, both present and to come. Greeting, I make known to you all, that I, Dermot O’Dempsey, King of Offaly, by the consent of Murdoch O’Conor have given and confirmed to God and the Monks of the B.V.M. of Rosglas, land on which to build a Monastery in honour of the Blessed Mary ever Virgin, and of St. Benedict the Abbot, as a perpetual eleemosynary. These are the lands which I Dermot O’Dempsey have given and confirmed to the aforesaid Monks of Rosglas in remission of my Sins and of the Sins of my Parents, the site of the Monastery of Rosglas, and all the lands with their appurtenances, and with the men belonging to the same lands. All these I give and confirm to the aforesaid Monks, to be held as a free, pure, and perpetual eleemosynary for the health of my soul, and the souls of my predecessors. Wherefore I will and command that the aforesaid Church of Rosglas and the Monks and brethren serving God therein, may have and hold the aforesaid lands, with all their liberties, viz., in woods and plains, meadows and pastures, and morasses in waters and fisheries, in roads and paths, in ponds and mills, in turbaries, and all mountains and valleys, and in all other places and things appertaining to the same lands, free quit and solutias from any customs and exactions, and from all secular duty.

    Witnesses.

    “Nehemiah, Bishop of Kildare.
    Donatus, Bishop of Leighlin.
    Filan, the son of Filan.
    Flan O’Demesi.
    Hekinech O’Demesi.
    Donchad O’Demesi.
    Fin O’Demesi.
    Aed O’Demesi.
    Culballinuss O’Duin [O’Dunne].
    Congal O’Kelly
    Rocner Denoulla.
    Kelach mac Aulaf.”

    et alliis multis.

    “The Annals of the Four Masters” record the death of this Dernot O’Dempsey in the year 1193, and in 1199 it was mentioned that the Abbott of Ros-Glae “was at his request allowed by the General Chapter of the order to celebrate in his own house the Feast of St. Evin,” which shows that the original founder was still held in high veneration….

    The Countess of Drogheda, ‘Monasterevin’ in Journal of the County Kildare Archaeological Society, Vol. IV (1903-1905), 231-244.

    Content Copyright © Omnium Sanctorum Hiberniae 2012-2016. All rights reserved.

  • The Legend of Saint Catherine of Alexandria



    November 25 is the feast of Saint Catherine of Alexandria, one of the great eastern female martyrs. The story of Saint Catherine’s martyrdom was immensely popular in the medieval west and includes a fifteenth-century Irish version. In 2014 I posted a translation of a medieval Irish poem in honour of Saint Catherine here, below is a later poetic offering by a nineteenth-century Irish woman, Ellen O’Connell Fitzsimmon. I hadn’t heard of the author before but learnt here that she was actually a daughter of the Liberator himself, Daniel O’Connell. Our poetess tells us in the introduction to her work that she was inspired by a fresco in Saint Clement’s Basilica in Rome to give her own version of Saint Catherine’s martyrdom:


    THE LEGEND OF ST. CATHERINE OF ALEXANDRIA.

    By Ellen Fitzsimon (born O’Connell).
    INTRODUCTION.
    BENEATH Saint Clement’s venerated dome,
    Most perfect of the Basilics of Rome,
    (Where a good Irish friar hath done more
    Than all the rich and pious had before
    In many centuries), there met my sight
    A fresco painting, not long given to light,
    The which a noble, simple story told
    Of triumph by Saint Catherine won of old
    Against the heathen sages, and the day
    When for the Christian Faith she gave her
    life away.
    Recalling this, and many a glorious feat
    Of that great Saint, her legend I repeat.
    Laying my homage humbly at her feet.
    THE LEGEND.
    In Alexandria, centuries ago,
    Amid a circle of philosophers.
    Of solemn sages, throughout Egypt famed.
    With others from the walls of palmy Rome,
    And Greece’s classic clime, sate Catherine,
    A Christian virgin, stately, fair, and
    young.
    Descended of a high Imperial race.
    And further graced with genius’ golden
    gifts.
    Calmly she sate, and disputation held
    With all those mighty masters of the mind.
    Alike on sciences and curious arts,
    On all thy varied forms. Philosophy!
    And higher still. Theology divine.
    In admiration, mixed with awe, the crowd
    Of listeners hung upon her silvery tones.
    The while with wondrous eloquence she spake
    The might, the majesty of Heaven’s ways
    Revealed to man ! refuting thoroughly
    All arguments, however plausible,
    By her opponents brought forth to support
    The worn-out faith on fable solely founded.
    On fable, feeble, foolish, and unclean!
    At length the pseudo-sages — struggling
    still
    Against conviction, nor content to own
    Defeat, except by silence — suddenly
    Broke up the assembly, on some poor
    pretence.
    And each departed, feeling envious hate
    Invade his inmost soul against Catherine,
    Who thus had humbled them before the
    people.
    She meantime to her very palace doors
    Was by the shouting citizens attended
    As in a triumph. Then, the crowd once gone,
    She sought her secret cell, to purity.
    To constant faith, true love, and hope
    divine.
    Kept sacred. There, before the crucifix
    Kneeling, she cried, “To Thee, to Thee, O
    Lord,
    The glory and the praise, that Thou hast
    lent
    Thy handmaid power to triumph in Thy name”.
    Not many days now passed, ere to the city
    Came Maximin, the tyrant Emperor.
    Soon summoned to his court were all the
    nobles,
    And all the brave, the youthful and the
    fair ;
    Amongst them Catherine, as a kinswoman
    Of the Imperial Caesar, held high place,
    No less than for her bearing and her
    genius.
    Scarce had the Emperor beheld the maid
    When love (as fierce as hate) possessed his
    soul!
    Oh, no! not love, but passion, such as
    fills
    The brindled panther s panting breast, for
    her
    His bright-eyed, cruel co-mate of the woods
    !
    All unaccustomed, save to swift success,
    He signified his feelings, doubting not
    Of joyful acceptation, Catherine,
    Without or exultation or disdain.
    Declined his suit. Fired fourfold by
    repulse,
    He, who at first had nothing meant in
    honour.
    Now cried, ” Thou surely dost not
    understand
    That Caesar woos thee for his bride, his
    Empress”
    Still calm, unmoved, the maid rejected him;
    For she had bound herself by secret vow
    The bride of Heaven alone, nor would resign
    For earthly throne the virgin’s privilege
    To follow in the path the Lamb doth tread.
    Foaming with fury, yet not daring aught
    Against a daughter of Imperial line.
    The tyrant saw her leave his courtly halls.
    The while he cried, “Oh! for a safe
    revenge
    On this insulting woman!”
    Since this earth
    First ran its destined course around the
    sun.
    Was never wanting to a tyrant’s rage
    Fit instrument  false philosopher,
    Of those whom Catherine lately overcame,
    Gladly embraced the occasion offered him
    To work her evil. To the infuriate Caesar
    Did he denounce her as blasphemer ‘gainst
    The gods of Rome, of Athens, and of Egypt,
    As being that most vile of all vile things,
    A Christian! Summoned to the dread
    tribunal
    Of Maximin, who triumphed in the thought
    Of humbling her, came now without delay
    The lovely lady. Stately and serene
    Did she approach, and, questioned of her
    faith,
    Unhesitating owned herself a Christian.
    The Emperor, his passion moved anew at
    sight
    Both of her beauty and unflinching courage,
    Offered her life and freedom on condition
    That she unto the gods made sacrifice.
    Again rejected, he went further still,
    Promising safety, liberty of faith,
    If she would only bless him with her hand.
    Needs not to say what Catherine replied ;
    Enough that in his rage he sentenced her
    Instant to perish by a fearful death,
    By cruel torture on a whirling wheel 
    His orders were obeyed. Amid the groans
    Of many, and the secret tears of more.
    The maid, upon whose brow sate peace and
    joy,
    Was bound upon the wheel, while Maximin,
    Panting for vengeance, loudly called upon
    The executioner to do his duty.
    The wretch approached to turn the fatal
    wheel.
    To which the maiden was already bound.
    When, lo! a miracle! As struck by
    lightning.
    The horrid engine into pieces fell;
    And Catherine, her arms crossed on her
    breast.
    Stood, calmly there, uninjured and unbound!
    Then rose up to the firmament a shout
    Of jubilee from all the multitude,
    “The gods forbid that Catherine should
    die!”
    And breaking through the strongest barriers
    They placed the virgin on a lofty car,
    And drew her with rejoicing to her home!
    The tyrant dared not then oppose the people
    In their wild moment of enthusiasm ;
    But when dark night enwrapped the
    slumbering city
    Was Catherine seized, and secretly conveyed
    To prison by his orders. There some days
    She languished in the deepest of the
    dungeons.
    Thence, still in silence and in secrecy,
    Brought forth at dawn, she perished by the
    sword,
    Her latest breath breathed out in prayer
    and praise !
    Towards morn, a rumour of the virgin’s
    death
    Spread through the city, whence derived
    none knew :
    Nor did the people dare to speak aloud
    Their doubts and fears upon the matter now
    ;
    For Maximin with arm’d satellites
    Had filled each public square and
    market-place,
    And made the craven-hearted people quail
    By vast display of force.
    The night had come.
    The dead of night. The city slumbering lay;
    No star shone sparkling in the firmament.
    But, like a pall, hung darkness on the
    earth:
    When lo! a sound such as no instrument.
    No trumpet, save archangel’s, e’er gave
    out,
    So sadly sweet, so thrilling, terrible.
    Roused sudden from their sleep the citizens;
    While, high in air, a dazzling, blinding
    light
    Shone, ‘neath whose glare the Pagans, all
    aghast.
    Fell prone to earth, the while the
    Christians saw
    A band of bright-wing’d angels cleave the
    sky,
    Bearing the body of Saint Catherine
    And chanting hymns of triumph as they flew,
    Until they reached the summit of a hill
    Where they deposited their holy charge
    In safety on a spot where, long years
    after,
    A church and monastery were up-raised.
    Who owned Saint Catherine for their
    Patroness,
    Their pious intercessor with the Lord!
    Such is the legend handed down to us 
    In truth and wisdom from the ancient days.

    0
    false

    18 pt
    18 pt
    0
    0

    false
    false
    false

    /* Style Definitions */
    table.MsoNormalTable
    {mso-style-name:”Table Normal”;
    mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
    mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
    mso-style-noshow:yes;
    mso-style-parent:””;
    mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
    mso-para-margin:0cm;
    mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
    mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
    font-size:12.0pt;
    font-family:”Times New Roman”;
    mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
    mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
    mso-fareast-font-family:”Times New Roman”;
    mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
    mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
    mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
    mso-bidi-font-family:”Times New Roman”;
    mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;
    mso-ansi-language:EN-US;}


    Content Copyright © Omnium Sanctorum Hiberniae 2012-2016. All rights reserved.

  • 'Lasair, woman-saint beloved'

    November 13 is the feast of Saint Lasair, an obscure female saint, despite the fact that she is one of a literal handful of Irish holy women to have a written Life still extant.  Lasair’s Life, however, is not quite in the same league as Cogitosus’s Life of Saint Brigid, as it was compiled in the seventeenth century. It may well be, however, that in 1670 David O’Duigenan had access to an earlier medieval text on which to draw.  Lucius Gwynn made a translation of the Beatha Lasrach which was published in the Royal Irish Academy’s journal, Ériu, in 1911. Below is a tribute to the saint paid by her only brother. The Life of Lasair depicts our saint as one of the six daughters of Ronán, and as far as her brother Cobthach is concerned, she outshines her siblings:

    Good were my six sisters,
    fair, generous, vigilant,
    Adhbhann, Esnad, Fuinche bright,
    Lasair, Damhnad and Derbhile.

    She is the best of those six women Lasair,
    with greatness of boasting,
    woman-saint who kept herself (a virgin),
    never has been found her equal for sanctity.

    Noble miracles wrought she
    in the church above Ard Locha.
    She took the priest out of imprisonment,
    and saved the child from misery.

    Jesus and all the saints
    be with me and Mary lovingly,
    and Damhnad of many miracles,
    and Lasair woman-saint beloved.

    Lucius Gwynn, ed and trans, The Life of St. Lasair, Ériu, Vol. 5 (1911), 83, 85.

    Content Copyright © Omnium Sanctorum Hiberniae 2012-2016. All rights reserved.