St Bernard of Clairvaux — Messingham, Florilegium (1624). Translated into modern English; the original was heavily column-scrambled OCR, here restored to readable order.

The Preface of Abbot Bernard on the Life of Bishop Malachy #

It has always been worthwhile to write the lives of illustrious saints, that they may serve as a mirror and example, and as a kind of seasoning for human life upon earth. For in this way they live among us, in a manner, even after death, and recall and provoke to the true life many of those who are dead while they live. But the scarcity of saints demands it most of all now, for our age is wholly destitute of such men. We feel that this destitution has so prevailed over us that none can doubt the sentence applies to us: “Because iniquity has abounded, the charity of many shall grow cold.” And, as I suspect, either that one is already at hand of whom it is written: “Want shall go before his face” — or, if I err not, it is Antichrist himself, whom hunger and sterility of all good, past and present, attend. Whether, then, it is the herald of want now present, or the herald of want about to be here, the want is evident. I pass over the crowd; I pass over the base multitude of the sons of this age; I turn my gaze to the very pillars of the Church — and let him show me even one of those who seem to be given as lights to the nations who smokes from the sublime rather than flames! “And if the light that is in you be darkness” — which I do not believe — “how great is that darkness!” For they seek what is their own, not what is God’s; not the things of the first-born, but their own things they claim. What do I say — they seek their own? They even reckon any who seek God’s things to be strangers to themselves, and so hold themselves apart from them. It seems to escape them in what degree of vigilance and abstinence the soldiers of Christ ought to be. Do not soldiers live content with their own allowances, that they may be healthy? It is a great reproach to the Church that, though one of the soldiers turns aside — as the prophet says in reproach of them — “like people, so shall be the priest.” O deformity! Shall a man deservedly be rejected who, falling from the highest rank, barely struggles into the lowest, that he may not be swallowed up by the pit? Yet how rare is the priest who can be shown content with bare necessities, a despiser of superfluities! The law, indeed, is fixed by the Apostles and the Apostles’ successors: “Having food and clothing, let us be therewith content.” This rule we read everywhere in books, but not in lives. One may have a just man whose law of God is in his heart, and not in a codex — nor, for the perfect, is the prison of necessity prepared. May the measure of the superfluous be pruned back, may we not desire without limit! But what? Perhaps you ask who could do this. Not that it is difficult — but see what we have done. We were looking for an excellent man, a liberator of many; and see, we labour at inventing one who might make even himself safe. We suffer today a barrenness which is not a barrenness of evils. From where, since the saint has failed from the earth, I see that it is not superfluous to recall from the middle those who are bought from the earth — Bishop Malachy, a man truly holy, and, if not of our own times, a singular man of wisdom and virtue. He was a lamp burning and shining, nor is the lamp extinguished but set aside. Who can justly be angry with me if I bring it back to light? For men ought not to begrudge me this, since every succeeding generation, whom his condition has benefited, will recover him: if I restore to the world one of whom the world was not worthy; if I preserve the memory of a holy man, whose memory shall be in blessing to all who deign to read; if the voice heard crying in our land rouses me, a friend sleeping: “See, I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the world.” Then too he was buried among us. For us in particular this work was laid up. What of the fact that the saint counted me among his special friends, and so placed me that none might be made equal to me in this glory by his own merit? To me the reward of such familiarity was not wanting — I received it beforehand. He was placed in the last things — no, in the first things, according to the saying: “When a man is finished, then he begins.” With feeble hand I received that the blessing of the dying man should come upon me. But when he could no longer move his other members, for the giving of the blessing he raised his holy hands over my head and blessed me; and I possess the blessing as a heritage. Finally, what do you enjoin upon me, venerable brother and my sweet friend, Abbot Congan — and with you likewise, as you write from Ireland, all that Church of the saints? I obey willingly, especially as you ask not eloquence but a narrative. I shall indeed take pains that it be pure and dry, informing the devout without wearying the fastidious. As for the truth of the narrative, it is assured to me by you, established by you — men who attest what you have most certainly seen for yourselves.

The Life #

¹ Our Malachy was born in Ireland; there he was educated, there he was taught letters. His parents were great in lineage and power, as the name of the great are who are upon the earth. But his mother, nobler in mind than in blood, acted in the very offices of her hands, marking upon the little child the ways of life — reckoning this more profitable to him than the knowledge of secular letters. Yet he was not without natural talent, as was fitting. At school he was taught letters, at home the fear of the Lord, and he answered both masters — teacher and mother — with daily progress. For from the beginning he had a good spirit, by which the boy was teachable and very lovable, marvellously gracious to all in all things. He was fed, moreover, for food from his mother’s bosom, as it were the foretaste of saving wisdom, and he became daily wiser than himself. Shall I say “wiser”, or “holier”? If I say both, I shall not repent — for I shall speak truth. He acted old in manners while a boy in years, free of boyish wantonness. And though from this he incurred reverence and wonder, he was not found thereby (as tends to happen) more insolent, but rather quiet and submissive in all meekness — not impatient of his master, not shunning discipline, not disdaining good lessons, not greedy of play or food, the things which that age is accustomed to hold sweet and familiar. And he advanced beyond all his equals in age in the learning then cultivated there. For in the discipline of manners and the progress of virtue he outshone even all his teachers — in a short time he became brilliant, taught not so much by a master as by instruction itself. By this same solicitude, and not sluggishly, he exercised himself in divine things: to seek secrecy, to anticipate the vigils, to meditate on the law, to refresh himself sparingly, to pray frequently. And because he could not frequent the church on account of his studies, and for modesty did not have it, he would lift pure hands in every place where he could secretly do so. Already then he was indeed wary — a goodly chooser of virtues — of vainglory. There used to be near the school in which the boy learned, a place to which his master used to go frequently, with himself as companion. When the two went together, he — as he afterwards related — used to draw back his foot, halt his step, and standing behind his master, the master not perceiving, with hands stretched to heaven he would let fly his prayer as it were by stealth, hurled like a dart; and thus deceiving his master would follow him again. With pious theft of this kind the boy frequently eluded both his companion and his master. It is not possible to tell all the things with which his first beginnings were adorned in the colour of a good profession; we must run on to greater and more useful matters. Yet I record one more thing, which in my judgement gave a sign not merely of good but of great hope in the boy. Having heard of a certain master of reputation — for he was famous in the disciplines called liberal — he went to him in eagerness to learn; for now, reaching the verge of boyhood, he was panting after those letters. Entering the house, he saw a man playing on a lyre, furrowing it with frequent strokes, carving a measure in some notable fashion. And the holy boy, offended at the mere sight because it smacked of levity, recoiled from him and did not care to see him thereafter. Thus while he was a most devoted student of letters, yet for honour’s sake the lover of virtue despised letters. By a kind of prelude the boy was preparing himself for the conflict which was and remained his in stronger age — and already he himself was challenging the adversary. And Malachy’s boyhood was of this sort. Moreover, he passed through adolescence with like simplicity and purity — save that with growing age there grew in him at once wisdom and grace before God and men.

² Hence already — that is, from his early adolescence — it began to appear more manifestly what was in the man, and that the grace of God in him was not void. For the industrious youth, seeing how the world lies in wickedness, and thinking what spirit he had received, said within himself: “This is not the spirit of this world. What have I to do with them? There is no fellowship of the one to the other, any more than of light to darkness. I know that the things given me are of God. From there for me meanwhile is innocence of life, from there the ornament of continence, from there the hunger of justice, from there whatever is more secure — because my glory is the testimony of my conscience. None of these things is safe for me under the prince of this world. Moreover, I hold this treasure in a fragile vessel — must I fear lest it strike and be broken, and the oil of gladness which I carry be poured out? And indeed not to strike amid the rocks and rough, winding paths of this life is most difficult. Shall I then lose it in a moment? I have loved all those from whom from the beginning I have been forestalled by the sweetness of blessing. I forsake them rather for Him from whom they are, and myself likewise — for I too am His first. I lose my soul for a while, that I may not lose it for ever. And what I am, and all that I have — where safer for me, where more wholesome, than in the hand of its Author? Who is so solicitous to preserve, so able to retain, so faithful to restore? He shall keep it safe, and restore it opportunely. Without retraction now I give it to serve His needs. It cannot be lost to me — whatever I shall have expended in the work of piety, He is able also to separate more abundantly for me. He who gives freely is accustomed to repay with usury. So it is — He shall heap up also, and multiply virtue in the soul.” These things he thought and did, knowing how vain are the thoughts of men.

There was a man in the city of Armagh — it is in this city that Malachy was raised — a lettered man, and of austere life indeed, an implacable castigator of his own body. Having a cell next to the church, he remained in it, serving day and night in fastings and supplications. To him Malachy betook himself, to receive from him the pattern of life — he who had condemned himself to such a living burial. And there appeared utility in him. From his earliest age he had served God in the holy art — that is not doubtful — and see, the meek and humble-hearted man was made a disciple of a man. If we knew nothing else, he proved it to us by this alone. Let them read this who seek to teach before they have learned — I speak of those who heap up disciples to themselves, when they have never been disciples — blind leaders of the blind. Malachy, taught by God, nevertheless sought teaching from man, and indeed wisely and prudently. What like thing could they bring forward, in which they would equally give a ground for progress to their followers? Let them attend to Malachy’s example, even for the least. Let them observe the work of Paul. Did not Paul confer his Gospel, which he had not received from man but from Christ, with men — lest perchance he should run in vain — and avouched it? Where he is not secure, neither am I. If anyone knows this, let him see to it that he is not secure himself, rather than rash. But these are another time’s concerns.

³ Now the report of that sound spread abroad — that a youth had moved to the monastic novelty. All were amazed and wondered at the virtue, the more so because it had never been seen in that savage nation. You might then see the thoughts of many hearts revealed. Many, cast down by humane feeling, wept and grieved that a youth beloved of all and delicately bred had enslaved himself to such hard labours. Others, suspecting levity on account of his age, were despondent over a ruin they judged imminent. Some, alleging rashness, grew indignant and raged against him because he had inconsiderately undertaken a thing too arduous for his age and strength. But he did nothing without counsel — for he had the Prophet’s counsel, who says: “It is good for a man when he has borne the yoke from his youth.” And he adds: “He shall sit solitary, and shall be silent, because he has lifted himself above himself.” He sat at the feet of Imar — for that was the man’s name — and either he loved obedience or believed he was taught so. He sat as one quiet, as one meek, as one humble. He sat and was silent, knowing and following the prophet, that the cult of justice is silence. He sat as one persevering, he was silent as one modest — save that by his own silence he was loud in the ears of God, and conformed to David: “I am young and despised; your justifications I have not forgotten.” And he sat solitary meanwhile, because without a companion and without an example. For who before Malachy would even have thought of attempting so strict a purpose of life? Truly it was held wondrous by all — not imitable. Malachy persuaded it was imitable by merely sitting and keeping silence: within a few days he had many imitators, provoked by his example. Thus he who at first sat solitary and as a only son of his father, became already one of many — the first-begotten of the Only-begotten among many brethren; as superior in conversion, so in conversation more sublime. And when all these things were so, one day he appeared — shining above all, by God’s help — to the bishop and master likewise, and it was judged fitting that he be promoted to the degree of deacon. These men compelled him to it. Henceforth the Levite of the Lord publicly girded himself to every work of piety, more truly indeed to those in which some injury was apparent. In particular his greatest care was the burying of the poor dead, reckoning that this afforded him no less humility than humanity. Nor was there lacking a renewed trouble to the new soldier — temptation by a woman, no, by his sister. His sister, abhorring the indignity of his office (as it seemed to her), said: “What do you, O fool? Suffer the dead to bury their dead.” This she hurled at him daily in reproach; but answer was made to the foolish woman according to her folly: “Wretched woman, you keep the word of the dead, but you know not its power.” Thus the ministry to which he had acceded unwillingly he held devoutly and exercised unweariedly. From where also they were persuaded to impose on him the sacerdotal office. And so it was done. He was, when he was ordained priest, about twenty-five years old. If in that ordination anything proceeded beyond the form of the canons — as it does appear, since he attained the Levitical ministry before his twenty-fifth year and the dignity of the priesthood before his thirtieth — let it be pardoned to the zeal of the ordainer and the merits of the ordained. For my part I counsel him who has not been holy neither to reprove it in the saint nor to usurp it. Nor was the bishop content, but even committed his own functions to him, to sow the holy seed in an unholy nation, and to give to a rude and lawless people the law of life and discipline. He undertook the mandate in all alacrity, fervent in spirit, neither hiding the talent nor slacking in labour. And see, the tongue began to root out, to destroy, to disperse; daily turning crooked things straight and rough ways plain. He raged like a giant to run everywhere. You would say a fire was burning to consume the thorns of crimes; you would say an axe or a hatchet was felling the evil plantings — to extirpate barbaric rites, to plant ecclesiastical ones. All the old superstitions (and not a few were found) he abolished, and whatever foul things he anywhere detected — malign spirits sent through evil angels. In short, whatever disorderly, whatever indecorous, whatever distorted met him, his eye did not spare; but like hail from the clouds and like dust before the wind from the face of the earth, so before his face the whole was swept away — to extirpate and destroy it from the people. And for all these things he, the best lawgiver, rendered laws — laws full of justice, full of modesty and honesty. The Apostolic sanctions too, and the decrees of the holy Fathers, and especially the customs of the holy Roman Church, he established in all the churches. Hence it is that to this day in those parts at the canonical hours things are sung and recited after the manner of the universal earth — for least of all was that done before, not even in the city. In his own adolescence he had learned the chant, and at once he made it sung in his coenobium, though not yet did they know how, or wish, to chant in the city or throughout the bishopric. Moreover the most salutary law of confession, the sacrament of confirmation, the contract of marriages — all of which were either unknown or neglected — Malachy instituted anew. And let these few things, by way of example, suffice; for throughout the whole texture of the history of his holy life we pass over very many things.

⁴ When his zeal and fervour were at their height concerning divine worship and the veneration of the sacraments — lest perchance he should determine or teach anything about them otherwise than the universal Church holds — he took it into his heart to visit Bishop Malchus, that he might be more fully informed by him concerning all things. This man was an elder full of days and of virtues, and the wisdom of God was in him. By nation indeed an Irishman, but he had lived in England in the habit and purpose of a monk — in the monastery of Glastonbury, from which he had been taken up to be bishop in the city of Lismore, and that city was more renowned than the rest of that kingdom. There the totality of grace had so burst upon him that he was venerable not only for his life and doctrine but also for signs. Of this I set down two examples, that it may be known to all what kind of precursor in the knowledge of the saints Malachy had. A boy vexed in mind, of those they call lunatics, he healed while confirming him with the sacred unction. This was so well known that he at once appointed the boy to be his doorkeeper, and the same boy remained whole in that office right up to manhood. To a deaf man he restored hearing, in which a wonderful thing also is told: when he put his fingers into each ear on either side, lo, as if drawing out certain growths from them, he healed them. For these and similar deeds of fame, when fame had grown, he acquired a great name among the Scots and the Irish alike, and was the one common father of all, honoured by all. To him, then, Malachy came, with the good mediation of his father Imar, and sent by the bishop; and when he had arrived prosperously, he was kindly received by the old man, to remain with him some years, that through this delay of time he might drink more fully from the veteran’s breast, knowing it is written that “in the ancients is wisdom.” Nor did this too fail to serve the purpose, since that great promoter of all wished his servant Malachy to be made famous in a place of such renown — he who was to profit all. Nor indeed could he be other than gracious to those to whom he was known. In the end, one of many things befell by which what was known to God in him he made manifest to men. Between the king of the Munstermen — which is the southern part of Ireland — and his brother there arose a rivalry for the kingship; the fact was that he was superior. The king, driven from the realm, fled for refuge to Bishop Malchus — not that by his help he might recover the kingdom, but rather the devout prince gave place to wrath and turned necessity into virtue, choosing to lead a private life. And when the bishop prepared to receive the king with due honour, he refused, saying that he preferred to be as one of those poor brethren who clung to him, to lay aside the royal estate, and to be content with common poverty — judging it more expedient to fulfil the will of the Lord than to recover his kingdom by violence; nor did he wish human blood to be shed for his earthly honour, which would cry against him to God from the earth. Hearing this, the bishop rejoices, and marvelling at his devotion satisfies his vow. What more? A poor little house is handed to the king for dwelling, and Malachy is given him as teacher — for life’s food, bread with salt and water. Moreover the presence, life and doctrine of Malachy were taken by the king for delights, so that he used to say: “How sweet are your words to my throat — sweeter than honey to my mouth.” Besides this, through each single night he watered his bed with his tears; and he quenched the lust ill-burning in his flesh with the daily bath of cold water. The king praying used to say, with the king: “See my humility from my labour, and forgive all my sins.” And God did not remove his prayer and His mercy from him. And his prayer was heard beyond what he himself intended. For though he was solicitous for his soul only, God, the avenger of innocence, wishing to show to men that it would come to pass — that for the peaceable man — was meanwhile preparing to make a judgement worthy of wonder, which the other utterly did not hope for. And God raised up the spirit of a king — for the kingdom of Ireland is not one, but divided into many. This man, then, seeing what was being done, was filled with zeal — now indignant at the robbers’ freedom and at the insolence of the proud, now pitying the desolation of the kingdom and the king’s dejection — and came down to the poor man’s cell. He urges his return, but does not persuade him; yet he insists, promises help, bids him not distrust God, promises that God will be at hand — whom all his adversaries could not resist. He sets before him the oppression of the poor and the devastation of the fatherland; and he does not prevail. But when the bishop’s command acceded, and Malachy’s counsel — on whom the king wholly depended — he at last acquiesced. The king follows his counsel, and according to the word of the king who had used it, as it was in heaven(?) — the robbers being driven out with all ease, the man is brought back to his own with exultation of his own people, and is restored to his kingdom. From that time that king loved and ever revered Malachy, and the more so the more fully he found in the holy man things worthy of veneration and love. For one who had merited so much familiarity in his adversity could not be ignorant of his charity. Therefore in his own prosperity he cultivated him the more with perpetual friendship and devoted services, and gladly heard him, and having heard him did many things. And let these things suffice. Yet I do not think it happened by chance that the Lord thus now manifested him in the sight of the king — for he was a chosen vessel to Him, to bear His name before kings and princes.

⁵ Meanwhile that sister of his died, of whom we spoke before. Nor must the visions he saw concerning her be passed over. For the holy man had abhorred her carnal life, and with such zeal that he vowed not to see her while she lived in the flesh. But when she was loosed from the flesh, his vow was loosed, and he began to see in the spirit her whom he had been unwilling to see in the body. On a certain night in a dream he heard a voice saying to him that his sister stood outside the churchyard, and see, for a whole thirty days she had tasted nothing. Waking, he readily understood by whose food’s fast she was wasting; and carefully reviewing the number of days he had heard, he found that it was the very period since he had ceased to offer the living bread from heaven for her — he who had begun it for his sister, not for his soul(?) — no, for her sins. The blessing which he had intermitted he began again. Nor was it in vain. Not long after she was seen to have come to the threshold of the church, but not yet to be able to enter inside — appearing also in a dark garment. And when he persevered in care that she should not be defrauded of the daily gift, secondly he saw her in a white garment, admitted indeed into the church, but not permitted to touch the altar. Thirdly the same woman was seen to be gathered to the company of the white-robed, in a white garment. You see, reader, how much the assiduous prayer of a just man avails — “the kingdom of heaven suffers violence, and the violent take it by force.” Does it not seem to you that Malachy’s prayer played the part, in a manner, of a breaker-in at the heavenly gates, when the sinful woman obtained by her brother’s arms what was denied her by her own merits? This violence, good Jesus, You who make yourself suffer it — mighty and pious to save, working mercy and power in Your arm, and in Your sacrament preserving the saints who are upon the earth to the consummation of the world — this sacrament plainly is able to consume sins, to rout the powers that oppose, to bring into the heavens those who revere You from the earth.

⁶ Now the Lord in the region of the Ulstermen was preparing His beloved Malachy for the glory of His name. But those who loved him, ill enduring his absence, recalled him by letters sent. When he had returned to his own, and indeed better instructed in all things that were needful for the work prepared and preserved for Malachy by God — a rich and powerful man who held the place called Bangor and all its possessions, inspired by God, at once gave all into his hand, and himself too. And he was his uncle — but the spirit of Malachy counted more than the nearness of flesh. The prince also delivered to him the very place of Bangor, that he might build a monastery there — or rather rebuild it. For under the first father Comgall it had raised a most noble structure — begetting many thousands of monks, the head of many monasteries, a place truly holy and fruitful, bearing most copious fruit to God — so that one of the sons of that holy congregation, by name Luanus, is said alone to have been the founder of a hundred monasteries. I have mentioned this that the reader may conjecture from this one how vast was the remaining multitude. In short, they so filled Ireland and Scotland with their offspring that the very verses of David seem to have been sung for those very times: “you have visited the earth and inebriated it; you have multiplied to enrich it. The river of God is filled with water; you have prepared their food, for so is its preparation. With its streams inebriating, multiply its germs; in its drops it shall rejoice, germinating.” And in this manner those that follow. Nor only into the aforementioned lands but into foreign regions too, as it were in a flood, the swarms of the saints poured themselves out. Of whom, ascending into our own Gallic parts, the holy Columbanus built the monastery of Luxeuil, made there into a great nation. So great indeed that with succeeding choirs they continuously celebrated the solemnities of the divine office, so that not even a moment of day or night was vacant of praise. These things concerning the ancient glory of the monastery of Bangor. When it had been destroyed long ago by pirates, Malachy embraced it as it were to replant a paradise, unworthy of the ancient dignity. And because many bodies of the saints slept there — for truly they say that nine hundred together were slain by pirates in one day, lying buried in peace. Indeed the possession of that place was vast; but Malachy, content with the holy place alone, ceded all the possessions and lands to another. For from the time when the monastery was destroyed there was never lacking someone who held it with its possessions; and indeed they were appointed even by election, and were called abbots, keeping the name — though not the thing — that had once been. And when many advised him not to alienate the possessions but to keep the whole together for himself, the lover of poverty did not consent, but caused to be chosen by lot the man who should hold them, the place being reserved to himself and his own, as we have said. And perhaps, as appeared afterwards, it was better for him — had he kept it whole, his humility would have looked to it rather than peace. Thus at the command of his father Imar, taking with him about ten brethren, coming to the place he began to build. There one day, when he himself was cutting with an axe, one of the workmen by chance incautiously occupied the spot where his blow was descending, while Malachy was swinging the axe in the air — and the axe fell upon his backbone, with the very force wherewith Malachy was able to strike. All thought the man had been struck dead or slain; and indeed his tunic was cut from top to bottom. But the man was found unhurt, the blade having grazed the skin so slightly that scarcely a trace appeared on the surface. The man stood unhurt whom the axe had prostrated, while those standing round were astounded. From where also they were found more eager, more ready thereafter for the work. And this was the beginning of Malachy’s signs. Moreover the oratory was finished within a few days — of smooth timbers indeed, but aptly and firmly compacted, a Scottish work, fair with boards. And from that time God was served there as in ancient days, with like devotion though not like numbers. Malachy presided over that place for some time, his father Imar also appointing it so — himself the rector, himself the rule of the brethren. They read in his life how they should live; and he walked before them in justice and holiness before God — save that, beyond the common observances, he did many things by himself in which he walked before all, and none of the others could follow him into such arduous things. At that time and in that place a certain man lay sick, whom the devil, addressing and speaking openly, used to urge never to trust Malachy’s monks, but if he could, to draw near and stab and kill him. When this was known by those who ministered to the sick man, with the sick man himself producing it, they brought word to Malachy, warning him. But he, seizing the accustomed arms of prayer, undaunted assailed the enemy — and put to flight both the sickness and the demon. The man’s name was Nialus; he was brother in the flesh to our Christianus, abbot of Mellifont — for both survive to this day, brothers to each other in spirit rather. For when he was delivered, he was at once not ungrateful; converted to the Lord in the same place, he changed his habit and his mind together. And the brethren knew that the Evil One envied their good things, and were built up and made more cautious for the rest. A cleric named Thiadeus, labouring under dysentery and despairing, Malachy healed by sending him something from his table. A second time, when the same man had been corrupted by a most grave infirmity, he cured him in body and mind alike — for he at once clung to God and to Malachy more devoutly, fearing lest something worse should befall him if he were again found ungrateful for so great a benefit and miracle. And now, as we have heard, he presides over a certain monastery of his own in the parts of Scotland — and this is the latest of all that he founded. Through such things the reputation and congregation of Malachy increased daily, and his name was great within and without — yet not greater than the reality. For he remained there even when made bishop, since the place was near the city.

⁷ At that time the episcopal see in one of the cities was vacant — and it had long been vacant, for Malachy had been unwilling to hear of it, since they had chosen him. But when they persisted, at last he yielded — the command of his master, and also of the metropolitan, acceding to compel him. In about the thirtieth year of his age Malachy, consecrated bishop, was brought into Connor — that is the name of the city. And when he began to act according to his office, then the man of God understood that he had been sent not to men but to beasts. Nowhere had he yet experienced such people in any barbarism; nowhere had he found any so overweening in manners, so feral in rites, so impious in faith, so barbarous in law, so stiff-necked to discipline, so foul in life — Christians in name, pagans in fact. They gave no tithes, no first-fruits; they contracted no legitimate marriages; they made no confessions; penances could neither be sought nor found anywhere. The ministers of the altar were very few — but what need of more, where that very fewness among the laity was nearly idle? There was nothing for them to fructify in the wicked people by their offices. For neither the voice of a preacher nor chanting was heard in the churches. What was the athlete of the Lord to do? Either to yield basely, or to contend perilously. But he who knew himself a shepherd, not a hireling, chose to stand rather than flee, ready even to give his soul for the sheep if need be. And though all were wolves and there were no sheep, the undaunted shepherd stood in the middle of wolves, contriving by every means how to make sheep of wolves. He admonished them in common, he rebuked them singly in secret; now harshly, now gently he addressed them, as it seemed expedient to each. For those whom he could profit less by these means he offered himself — a contrite and humbled heart — to them(?). How often he passed whole nights without sleep, stretching out his hands in prayer! And when they would not come to the church, he met them uninvited in the streets and squares, and going about the city he anxiously sought whom he might win for Christ. But he also ran through the country and towns outside the walls none the less often, with that holy band of his disciples who never left his side. He went and paid out the heavenly measure even to the ungrateful. And he was not carried on a horse but went on foot — herein proving himself an apostolic man, good Jesus, who for Your name was a warrior to the wicked. How much did he sustain from those very men to whom and for whom he spoke Your good things! Who can worthily reckon in how many straits he was harassed, in what afflictions, by what insults attacked, how often wearied with hunger, how often afflicted with cold and nakedness? Yet with them that hated peace he was peaceable — none the less instant in season and out of season. Blasphemed, he besought; injured, he opposed patience, and overcame evil with good. Who did not see that he persevered stricken? And according to the promise, at last, though late, it blossomed. How could that not follow which the Truth had foretold would follow? “The right hand of the Lord has wrought might,” because the mouth of the Lord had spoken truth. That hardness, whatever barbarism, and the exasperating house began little by little to soften, little by little to admit correction, to receive discipline. Then the laws of Rome are introduced from the middle of barbarism. Everywhere the ecclesiastical customs are received, the contrary rejected. Basilicas are rebuilt, clergy are ordained in them, the rites of the sacraments are celebrated solemnly. Confessions are made, the peoples gather in church, concubinage gives way to the honourable celebration of marriages. Finally, all things were so changed for the better that to this day that nation fits what the Lord says through the prophet: “That which was not my people is now my people.” It came to pass some years later that the city was destroyed by the king of the northern part of Ireland — for “from the north all evil breaks forth.” And perhaps that evil was good for those who suffered it. For who knows whether by such a scourge God willed to blot out the ancient evils of His people? Compelled by necessity of this sort, Malachy himself also went out with his band of disciples. Nor was his departure idle. On that occasion the monastery of Iverus(?) was built — Malachy going with his own, a hundred and twenty brethren. There King Cormac met him — the same who, driven long ago from his kingdom, had received under Malachy’s care consolation from God’s mercy; and that place was situated in his kingdom. The king rejoiced at Malachy’s coming, and set before him all he had, for himself and for those with him — as one not ungrateful nor unmindful of the benefit. Many animals were brought to the hand for the use of the brethren, and much besides in gold and silver collected for the cost of the buildings, with royal liberality. He himself went in and out with them, assiduous and dutiful — a king in habit, but in mind a disciple of Malachy. And the Lord blessed that place for Malachy’s sake, and in a short time it became great in goods and possessions and persons. Where, beginning as it were anew the law and discipline which he had imposed on others, the bishop and master rather bore them himself. He in the order of his turn used to enter the kitchen service; he ministered to the brethren when they sat down. Among the brethren succeeding one another at singing or reading in church he did not suffer himself to be passed by, but strenuously filled his own office in his place like one of them. Of holy poverty he showed himself not only a sharer but the very chief — he himself above all a more abundant emulator of it.

⁸ While these things were so being done, it happened that Archbishop Celsus fell ill — the same who had ordained Malachy deacon, priest and bishop. And knowing that he was dying, he made as it were his testament — that Malachy ought to succeed him, since none seemed more worthy to be bishop in the primal see. This he enjoined upon those present, this he commanded those absent, this he specially charged both kings of Munster and the great men of the land, by the authority of St Patrick — by whose reverence and honour, as the apostle of that nation who had converted the whole fatherland to the faith, that see, in which he presided while living and rests while dead, is held in such veneration by all from the beginning that not only bishops and priests and those of the clergy, but also the universality of kings and princes is subject to the metropolitan in all obedience, and he alone presides over all. But a most pestilent custom had grown up — that by the diabolical ambition of certain powerful men the holy see should be held by hereditary succession. For they suffered no one to be bishop who was not of their tribe and family. And the execrable succession had proceeded not a little, the evil having now grown up as it were through fifteen generations. And an evil and adulterous generation had so hardened the wicked right — no, an injury to be punished by every death — that although sometimes clerics of that blood failed, bishops never did. In short, already eight before Celsus had been men with wives and without orders — yet lettered. Hence throughout all Ireland (of which we have said much above) the dissolution of ecclesiastical discipline, the enervation of censure, the evacuation of religion. Hence everywhere, in place of Christian custom, a savage barbarism was introduced — no, a certain paganism induced under the Christian name. For bishops were changed and multiplied at the metropolitan’s pleasure without order, without reason — a thing unheard of from the very beginning of Christianity — so that one was not content with a single bishopric, but almost every church had its own bishop. Nor is it wonderful — for how could the members of so diseased a head be sound? Over these and suchlike ills of his people Celsus grieved vehemently — for he was a good and God-fearing man — and took care by every means to have Malachy as his successor, since by him he believed it possible that the deep-rooted succession of evil might be uprooted — he who was dear to all, whom all emulated, and with whom the Lord was. Nor was he frustrated of his hope. For when he was dead, Malachy was substituted — but not at once, nor easily. For see, one of the base seed occupied his place — Mauritius by name. He, trusting in secular power, brooded over the church for five years — not a bishop but a tyrant; for the prayers of the devout inclined rather to Malachy. In short, they urged him to take up the burden according to Celsus’s disposition; but he, who shrank from every lofty thing as from a precipice, seemed to himself to find a good occasion for excuse — that during that time his entry could not be peaceful. They pressed the holy work and solicited all — especially two bishops, Malchus of Lismore (the same old man of whom mention has been made above), and the other, Gilbert, who then first discharged the office of legate of the Apostolic See throughout all Ireland. When three years had run their course in this presumption of Mauritius and Malachy’s feigned deafness, those men, no longer bearing the church’s adultery and Christ’s disgrace, convoked the bishops and princes of the land and with one spirit compelled Malachy, prepared to use force. But he at first refused, alleging indeed the difficulty of the work — the multitude of that noble lineage, its strength, its ambition; that he, poor wretch, should oppose himself to so many, such great, such deep-rooted men — who had now for nearly two hundred years possessed as it were by inheritance the sanctuary of God, and now also preoccupied it; that they could not be extirpated without the shedding of human blood; that he had a wife espoused whom he might not put away. But they pressing against him and crying that the word had gone forth from the Lord — no, with all authority ordering him to take up the burden, and threatening anathema: “You are leading me to death,” he said, “but I obey in hope of martyrdom — on this condition, however, that if according to your faith the matter turns out for the better, and God vindicates for Himself His inheritance from those who tear it in pieces, then at last, when all is accomplished and the church has peace, it may be permitted me to return to my former poverty, my dear bride, from which I am being snatched, and to substitute another there for me, who shall then perhaps be found more fit.” Consider, reader, the man’s virtue and the purity of his soul — neither seeking honour, nor fearing death for Christ’s name. What is purer than this mind, what braver — that he should expose himself to peril and labour, and cede to another the fruit of his labours in the security and peace of the principate? He does this while freely retaining for himself by compact the return to poverty once the peace and liberty of the church is restored. When they promised this, he at last acquiesced in their will — or rather God’s, for he remembered what had once been foreshown of him, which now grieved him that it was to be. For while Celsus was already ailing, there appeared to Malachy — and indeed one standing far off and unknowing — a woman of tall stature and venerable countenance. When he asked who she might be, the answer was given: “I am the wife of Celsus.” And handing him the pastoral staff which she held in her hand, she disappeared. A few days later the dying Celsus sent his staff to Malachy as to his successor; and when he saw it he recognised that it was the very one he had seen. It was principally by the attestation of this vision that Malachy yielded, lest if he refused further beyond what was right he should seem to resist the divine will. Nevertheless he did not enter the city while that usurper lived — lest by this occasion it should happen that any of those to whom he came rather to minister should die. Thus for two years (for so long did he survive him) he exercised the episcopal office mightily outside the city throughout the whole province. When that other also had been removed from the middle by death, a certain Niall — a true raven of that place(?) — seized the see — whom the living Mauritius had already provided to have him as heir, in whom, now going out to be damned, he might abide in works of damnation. For he too was of the damned progeny, a kinsman of Mauritius. But the king and the bishops and the faithful of the land none the less conspired to bring in Malachy. And see, a council of the malignant is arrayed from the opposite side. A certain one of their number, prompt to malice, powerful in iniquity — knowing the place where they were to fitting and having agreed where it should be — gathered many to himself and occupied a neighbouring hill, eminent in that region, from where with sudden onset they might rush upon the unwitting deliberators and slay the innocent. For they had sworn to slay the king together with the bishop, so that there should be none to avenge innocent blood. The matter became known to Malachy, and he entered the church — for it was near — and with raised hands prayed to the Lord. And see, a cloud and darkness — and also darker water in the clouds of the air — turned day into night. Lightnings too, and thunders, and a horrible spirit of tempests threatened the last day; all the neighbouring elements threatened death to all — that you may know, reader, that Malachy’s prayer shook the elements. The tempest intercepted those only who sought his life; the darkness involved only those who plotted to bring in the darkness. In short, that very prince of wickedness himself was struck by lightning and perished with three others — they were partners in death who had been partakers in the crime. The next day their bodies were found half-burnt and putrid, clinging to the branches of trees, wherever the spirit had lifted each and dashed him down. Three others were found half-alive; the rest were all scattered round about. But those who were with Malachy, nearer to the spot, the tempest neither touched nor molested at all — it left them unhurt. In the saints’ deeds we take experience of the truth of that word: “The prayer of the just piercs the heavens.” And we have a new example of the ancient miracle whereby of old, when Egypt was wrapped in darkness, Israel alone remained in light, the Scripture saying: “Wherever Israel was, there was light.” This also may seem to me fitting to the fact of the holy Elijah — now calling forth clouds and rains from the ends of the earth, now calling down fire from heaven upon blasphemers. And now God is glorified in like manner in His servant Malachy.

⁹ In his thirty-eighth year the poor Malachy, the usurper having been expelled, entered Armagh — pontiff and metropolitan of all Ireland; and the king, who had brought him in with a word, returned to his own, committing him into the hand of God — there remained fightings without, fears within. For see, the viperous brood, gnashing and crying out, claims the see for its own, and stirs up against the Lord and against His Christ all its own and its accomplices. Moreover Niall, seeing flight to threaten him, took with him certain insignia of that see — a text of the Gospels namely, which had been the blessed Patrick’s, and a staff covered in gold and adorned with most precious gems, which they call “the staff of Jesus,” because the Lord Himself (as opinion reports) held it in His own hands and shaped it. And these are of the highest dignity and veneration in that nation. For they are most famous and celebrated among those peoples, and in such reverence with all that whoever is seen to possess them is held by the foolish and unwise people to be the bishop himself. That man went wandering about and, a second Satan, circled the earth and walked through it, carrying round the sacred insignia — offering them everywhere, everywhere received by their grace, winning over the minds of all thereby, and alienating from Malachy whomever he could. So much for him. Now there was a certain prince, among the more powerful of the wicked progeny, whom the king, before he burned the city, had compelled by oath to keep peace with the bishop — having received from him many hostages besides. He, after the king’s departure, none the less entered the city and held counsel with his kinsmen and friends how they might take the saint by guile and destroy him. But they feared the multitude. And conspiring for Malachy’s death they appointed a day for themselves, and the traitor gave them the signal. On the very day, when the evening sacrifice was being celebrated in the church by the bishop before the people — the ruler sending to him with peaceful words on this pretext, that he should deign to come down to him and make peace — when those attending answered that the bishop ought rather to come to them… but the accomplices add that the bishop must come to the place of confirming the peace (if indeed there was perfidy in it); and they subjoin what was not true — that the prince was held by a fetter on his head(?), and that they dared not to trust the people, who for one day’s sake had nearly killed the bishop before. They contending in this wise — those indeed that he should come, these that he should not go: the bishop, desirous of peace and undaunted at death, said: “Suffer me, brethren, let me to imitate my Master. I am a Christian without cause if I do not follow Christ. Perhaps by humility I shall appease the tyrant; and if I do not prevail, yet as a shepherd I shall have shown to the sheep, as a priest to the layman, what he owed me. You also, in what is in me, I edify no little by such an example. For what if it should happen that I be slain? I do not refuse to die, that you may hold from me an example of life. It behoves a bishop — that a bishop of princes(?) — not to lord it over the clergy, but to become the pattern of the flock. This is the same pattern we have received from Him who humbled Himself, made obedient to death. Who shall give me to leave this sign in my blood? We shall certainly try whether your priest has worthily learned from Christ not to fear death for Christ.” And rising, he prepared to go — all standing by and beseeching that he should not so desire to die for Christ as to leave Christ’s flock desolate. But he, setting all his hope on the Lord, went forth in all alacrity, attended by only three disciples ready to die with him. Scarce had he trodden the threshold of the house when he suddenly put himself into the middle of the armed men — armed himself with the shield of faith — and the faces of all fell, for terror was upon them, so that the bishop could say: “My enemies who troubled me — they were weakened and fell.” And this was truly seen: you might see the victim standing, the butchers surrounding him on every side with armed hands — and there was none who sacrificed. You would think them stupified; yet there was none who stretched out a hand. No, he too who seemed the head of the malice, and rose against him, rose to help him. Where, I ask, is the sign, O wicked man, when death was proclaimed to the pontiff? It was decreed — to bring death. They were silent who had prepared the slaying. There is no denying it — he had sought it even through peril of life. And so peace was made. From that day the priest held the people pacified, yes subdued, yes devoted. Hearing this, the faithful rejoiced — that not only was innocent blood saved on that day, but the souls of many guilty men had escaped to salvation by Malachy’s merits. And fear seized all round about, hearing how God had so prostrated two of his enemies — who had seemed the fiercer and stronger in their generation — with sudden power: I mean him who is in His hands(?), and him of whom I spoke above — the one terribly punished in body, the other mercifully chastened in heart, both wonderfully caught in the counsels they were plotting. When these things were thus accomplished, the bishop began in the city with full liberty to dispose and ordain all things pertaining to his ministry — yet not without continual peril of his life. For though there was now none who openly harmed him, yet because of the plotters neither was any place safe enough for the bishop nor any time secure. And armed men were posted for his custody by day and night — but he trusted more in the Lord. Now the purpose of the aforementioned schismatic was to pursue him, because he was seducing many by the insignia he carried, persuading all that he himself ought to be bishop, and thus loosening the faithful against Malachy and the unity of the church. And so he did. And without difficulty, in a short time, Malachy followed up all his ways — by the grace given him from the Lord, and the grace he had with all men — until the malignant one was compelled to give his hand, to restore the insignia, and to be quiet for the rest in all subjection. Thus Malachy, though through many perils, was prospered in labours day by day, and was the more comforted, the more abounding in hope and the power of the Holy Spirit. And God corrected not only those who did Malachy mischief but also his detractors. A certain man, for instance, enjoying the grace of princes and of the powerful and even of the king himself — because he was a flatterer and garrulous and mighty in tongue — favoured Malachy’s adversaries in all things and impudently defended their party; resisting the saint to his face and backbiting him in his absence, he never spared to encounter him in any place — especially where he knew him to be more celebrated — in the assemblies of the crowds. But the seditious tongue of the violent man received its due wages: his railing tongue swelled and rotted, and in place of his blasphemous mouth worms and foul matters issued and flowed, which vomiting incessantly for seven days he at last with them spewed out his wretched soul. And once, when Malachy was speaking and exhorting the people, a certain woman ventured to interrupt his discourse with unseemly clamours — not sparing the priest nor the spirit that spoke. She was of the impious progeny, having a malignant spirit; she poured out blasphemies and contumelies upon the saint, calling him a hypocrite and an invader of another’s inheritance — and also casting at him the reproach of his baldness. But he answered her nothing — being modest and mild — but the Lord answered for him: she was turned into madness, by the Lord’s judgement, crying with frequent voices that she was being roasted by Malachy, and at last by a horrible death expiated the sin of blasphemy. Thus the wretched woman, taking up against Malachy the reproach of Elisha, proved him to herself a second Elisha. Moreover, on the occasion of a certain pestilence arisen in the city, when he had solemnly led forth the multitude of clergy and people with a commemoration of the saints then celebrated — this also must not be passed over, that while Malachy prayed the pestilence at once was stilled. From this now it was not unknown for any to murmur against him — men saying what the Canaanite seed are: “Let us flee from Malachy, for the Lord fights for him.” But I say this late, because the zeal of the Lord encountering them everywhere persecuted them even to destruction. How within a few days “their memory perished with a sound”! How they were made a desolation — “they failed suddenly, they perished for their iniquity”! Even to-day the swift obliteration of that generation works a great wonder, especially for those who knew their arrogance and power. Many other signs there were indeed by which God glorified His name and comforted His servant amid toils and perils. Who could recount them? Yet we do not pass over all, nor do we suffice for all. For the sake of the sequence of the narrative, that it be not hindered, we shall reserve certain things to the end. Therefore Malachy, within three years, rendered retribution to the proud; and with the church’s liberty restored, barbarism expelled, and the morals of the Christian religion everywhere reformed — seeing all things in peace, he began to think of his own peace also, and according to the purpose of his proposal he set over himself Gilla(?) — a good and worthy man — the clergy and people conniving, no rather constraining on account of their shepherd. For otherwise it seemed wholly hard to them. When he had been consecrated and commended diligently to the kings and princes, Malachy himself, renowned for miracles and trophies, returned to his own fatherland — not however to Connor; and hear the cause, worthy to be known. That diocese is said to have held from antiquity two episcopal sees and two bishoprics; this seemed better to Malachy. And so whom ambition had joined in one, Malachy recalled into two — ceding a part to a bishop, retaining a part for himself; and for that reason he did not come to Connor, because he had ordained another in that see — but he betook himself to Down, dividing the parts as in ancient days. An excellent heart! He did not cling to the more honourable place; he handed it to the new bishop who seemed more ready and was held to be more worthy — the place in which he himself had sat. Where are they now who litigate over boundaries, who wage enmities against one another for one little village? I know not whether the ancient prophecy touches any race of men more than these: “Secular men shall be pregnant to widen their bounds.” But let us go back.

¹⁰ Malachy, made bishop of Down, at once in his own fashion took care to gather to himself, for his consolation, a regular convent of clerics from among his sons. And see, once more he girds himself as a new soldier of Christ to a spiritual combat — once more he puts on the arms of God’s power, holy poverty, humility, the rigour of cenobitic discipline, the leisure of contemplation, the assiduity of prayer — all of which, however, he was better able to tell than to show by deed. For all men flowed together to him; and not only the common sort but nobles and potentates hastened to entrust themselves to be instructed by his wisdom and holiness, to be corrected and ruled. And he himself at times went and came out to sow his seed, disposing and decreeing with such authority concerning ecclesiastical things as though he were one of the Apostles. And no one said to him, “By what authority do you these things?” — all seeing the signs and prodigies he wrought, and because “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.” Meanwhile it was not safe to have done these things without the authority of the Apostolic See — and he resolved to set out for Rome; especially since the metropolitan see still lacked and from the beginning had lacked the use of the pallium, which is the fullness of honour. And it seemed good in his eyes that the church for which he had so laboured should acquire by his own zeal and toil that which it had hitherto not had. There was also another metropolitan see, which Celsus had newly constituted — subject, however, to the primal see and to its archbishop as to a primate — and for this one likewise Malachy wished to obtain a pallium, and that the prerogative which it had merited to receive by Celsus’s benefaction should be confirmed by the authority of the Apostolic See. When his purpose became known, it displeased the brethren and the magnates and the people of the land; for they all judged the absence of so divine a common father intolerable, and they feared for his death. Meanwhile it befell that his own brother died — Christianus by name, a good man, full of grace and power. He was a bishop — second to him indeed in renowned opinion, but in holiness of life and zeal of justice perchance not unequal. His death terrified all the more, and rendered Malachy’s departure more grievous. They said that the sole pilgrimage of their patron ought in no wise to be assented to — lest the whole land be left desolate if it were deprived of two such pillars in one moment of time. All alike therefore opposed it, and they used force — while he threatened divine vengeance upon them. Yet they did not desist until perchance the will of God should first be consulted upon it, as he hinted(?). When he prohibited it none the less, lots were cast — but these were found to have answered thrice in Malachy’s favour. For they were not content with one throw, being desirous of retaining him. At last yielding, they let him go — not without much weeping and lamentation. And that nothing be left imperfect, he began to contrive how he might raise up seed to his dead brother. And calling his fellow disciples to him, he anxiously asked which seemed worthier or more useful for this work. And diligently looking round upon them one by one: “You,” he said, ‘O Gillan’ — for so one of them was called — “take up the burden.” The man hesitated and wept. “Do not fear me,” he said; “for you have been designated to me by the Lord — since even now I foresaw the golden ring with which you are to be espoused upon your finger.” He acquiesced; and Malachy, having consecrated him, set out. And when he had departed out of Scotland and come to York, a certain priest named Sylvanus looked upon him and recognised him — nor had he seen his face before; but because he had the spirit of prophecy, it had been revealed to him concerning him long before. And then at once, pointing him out with his finger to those standing by: “This is he,” he said, “of whom I said that a holy bishop would come from Ireland who would know the thoughts of men.” So the lamp could not be hidden under a bushel — for it was produced by the mouth of Sylvanus, the Holy Spirit who had kindled it. For many secret things of himself and of his companions were told him by Sylvanus, all of which he acknowledged to be or to have been so. And when Malachy’s companions asked Sylvanus about their own return, he answered them at once — what the outcome afterwards proved — that a very few of that number would return with the bishop. Hearing this they suspected death, but God fulfilled it otherwise. For returning from the city, leaving some with us and some in other places to learn the form of the life, according to Sylvanus’s word he repatriated with very few. So much for Sylvanus. In that same city of York there came to him a man noble according to the world, by name Walter(?), then prior of the regular brethren of Kirkham, now a monk and father of monks in the monastery of Rievaulx of our order, who commended himself humbly enough to Malachy’s devout prayers. He, observing that the bishop had many companions and few horses (for apart from the ministers and other clerics, five priests were with him and only three horses), offered him the one on which he himself rode, saying that he grieved only that it was a runcinus bearing hardly. And he added: “I would more gladly have given it had it been better; but if you deign, take it, such as it is, with you.” “And I,” said the bishop, “accept it the more gladly for your declaring it the worse — since nothing can be vile to me which so precious a will has offered.” And turning to his own: “Saddle this one for me,” he said, “for it is commodious enough and will be easy on the journey.” When it was done he mounted; and at first indeed he found it hard, as he perceived; afterwards by a wondrous change he found it commodious to him and ambled sweetly. And that it might not fall to the ground as a word which he had spoken — until the ninth year on which the beast itself died — it did not fail, having become an excellent and most precious riding horse; and it made a yet more evident miracle to beholders: from coal-black it began to whiten, and not long after there was scarcely found one whiter. To me also on this journey it was given to see the man, and in his sight and speech I was refreshed and delighted as in all riches; and I in turn, sinner though I be, found grace in his eyes from from then on to his death, as I said in the proem. He also deigned to turn aside to Clairvaux to the brethren, who were pricked in heart and were not meanly edified in his presence and discourse. And approving the place and us, gathering us into his inmost bosom, he bade us farewell and departed. Crossing the Alps, when he had come to Ivrea, a city of Italy, he at once healed his host’s little son who was gravely ill.

¹¹ At that time Innocent II of happy memory sat in the Apostolic see. He received him benignly and compassionately condoled with him on his long pilgrimage. And first of all Malachy implored with many tears the thing he had fixed deeper in his soul — that he might be permitted to live and die at Clairvaux, with the licence and blessing of the supreme pontiff. And this he sought not forgetful of that for which he had come, but drawn by the desire wherewith he had come — burning for Clairvaux. He did not obtain it; for the apostolic man judged that he should be reserved for richer gains. Yet he was not wholly frustrated of the desire of his heart: to die there was granted him, if not to live. He spent a whole month in the city, walking round the holy places and frequenting them for prayer’s sake. And when during that time the supreme pontiff had diligently and frequently inquired of him and of those who had come with him the state of his fatherland, the manners of the nation, the standing of the churches, and how much God had wrought through him in that land, he committed to him his own functions as a father now repatriating — constituting him legate throughout all Ireland. For it had been signified to him by Bishop Gilbert — who, as we mentioned above, had hitherto been legate — that he could no longer exercise the office by reason of his age and bodily debility. These things Malachy sought to be confirmed — the constitution of the new metropolis, and that the pallia of both sees be given him. And the privilege of confirmation he indeed received at once; but concerning the pallia, said the supreme pontiff, it must be transacted more solemnly: “Convoking the bishops and clerics and the great men of the land, you shall celebrate a general council, and so with the consent and common vote of all, through honourable persons, you shall request the pallium — and it shall be given you.” Then, taking the mitre from his own head, he set it upon his head, and gave him the stole likewise from his shoulders, which he used to use in offering; and saluting him with the kiss of peace he dismissed him, sustained by apostolic blessing and authority. Returning through his own Clairvaux he bestowed on us a larger blessing. And drawing deep sighs that it was not permitted him to remain according to his desire: “These meanwhile,” he said, “keep for me, that from you they may learn what they may afterwards teach us. And there shall be in flesh and in seed: “In you shall the nations be blessed” — and those nations which from ancient days have heard the name of monk but never seen a monk.” And dismissing four from his side, he departed. They were tried and found worthy, and were made monks among us; and after a certain time, as he had sanctified them(?), he sent others into his own land, and the like was done with them. When these had been instructed and trained for a time in the discipline of wisdom, giving them the holy father, brother Christianus who was one of them, he sent them — joining to them of ours as many as should suffice for the number of an abbey — which conceived and brought forth five sons; and so the seed being multiplied, the number of monks increases daily, according to the desire and prophecy of Malachy. Now let us resume the order of the narrative. Malachy, setting out, came prosperously to Scotland. And he found King David — who still survives to this day — in one of his castles, whose son lay sick to death. Entering to him, he was honourably received by the king and humbly besought to visit his son; sprinkling the youth with water he had blessed, and standing over him he said: “Be of good courage, son — you shall not die this time.” He said it, and the next day health followed — the father’s joy, the clamour and tumult of the whole exulting household. The report went forth to all — for what had happened to the king’s son in the royal house could not be hid. And see, everywhere resounding thanksgiving and the voice of praise, both for the salvation of the lord and for the novelty of the miracle — Henry(?) is he, for he still lives, his father’s friend, a strong and prudent knight, inheriting (as they say) his father’s justice and love. Both indeed loved Malachy as long as he lived, since he had recalled him from death. They begged him to stay some days; but he declined the delay and pursued his way.

¹² Passing through a village named Scotter(?), a dumb girl met him; while he prayed, the bond of her tongue was loosed, and she spoke correctly. From there, entering a town which they call the Church of St Michael, a woman frantic and bound with ropes was offered to him; he cured her in the presence of all the people and dismissed her whole, and went on his way. Coming to the port of Lerp(?) he awaited passage there some days — a delay not idle, however. Meanwhile an oratory of twigs woven in the hedge was built — he himself ordering it, himself likewise working. When it was finished, he surrounded it with a rampart, and blessed the adjacent space for a cemetery. That it was worthy of him who blessed it the miracles declare, which are said to be performed there to this day. Hence it is that they have grown accustomed to carry there the sick and the afflicted from neighbouring places, and many are healed. A woman wholly dissolved in her members was carried there on a cart, and returned home on her own feet — having awaited the mercy of the Lord one single night, not in vain, in the holy place. Another woman, spending the night there in prayer, was found alone by a man inflamed with barbarian lust — and least of all master of himself — who rushed furiously upon her. She turned, and trembling looking at him, perceived the man full of a diabolical spirit. “Wretched man,” she said, “what are you doing? Consider where you are; reverence this holy place; desist for God’s sake, desist for His servant Malachy’s; spare even yourself.” The man did not desist, driven on by unhallowed fury. And see — a thing horrible to tell — a venomous and swollen animal, which they call a toad, was seen to creep out from between the woman’s thighs. Terrified, the man recoiled and fled headlong from the oratory. He departed confounded, and she remained untouched — by a miracle of God and merit of Malachy, since a foul and abominable work was fittingly prevented by a foul and abominable monster. For it was not fitting that so bestial a lust should be extinguished otherwise than by the coldest of vermin; nor otherwise that a rash audacity should be bridled, an attempt frustrated, than by a vile and useless little beast. And let these few of many suffice for that place. Now let us pursue the rest.

¹³ Malachy went aboard ship, and sailing prosperously reached his monastery of Bangor — that his first sons might receive the first grace. What think you those men felt in their hearts, having received back the father after so long a journey — and such a father! No wonder if their whole bowels melted into joy at his return, when to the nations round about also a swift report soon brought incredible gladness. In short, from cities and castles and villages they run to meet him; and wherever he turned he was received with the exultation of the whole land. Nevertheless, not often by honour but by the exercise of his legation: in many places many assemblies are celebrated, lest any region or part of a region should be defrauded of the fruit and benefit of the legation. He is sent over all waters — there is none who hides himself from the work of his solicitude. No sex, no age, no condition, no profession escaped him. Everywhere the saving seed is scattered; everywhere the heavenly trumpet sounds. Everywhere he runs to and fro; everywhere with the unsheathed sword of his tongue he bursts in “to execute vengeance among the nations, chastisements among the peoples” — his terror upon those who do evil. “He says to the wicked: Do not act wickedly; and to them that offend: Lift not up the horn.” Religion is everywhere planted, propagated, fostered. His eyes are upon them, and his care for their necessities. In the councils celebrated everywhere the ancient traditions are restored — those which he had ascertained to be good but to have been abolished by the negligence of priests. And not only are the old things restored — new things also are struck. And whatever was promulgated was received as though sent down from heaven, held fast, committed to writing for the memory of posterity. Why should they not be believed heavenly, which so many heavenly miracles confirmed? And to win faith for my words, I shall run through a few things in few words — for who could enumerate them all? I confess I more willingly admire than recount them.

¹⁴ And in my judgement the first and greatest miracle that he wrought was himself. For to say nothing of his inner man — whose beauty, fortitude and purity his manners and life sufficiently declared — his very outward man he bore always in one and the same most modest and most seemly fashion, so that nothing gross appeared in him that could offend beholders. And indeed “whoso offends not in word, the same is a perfect man.” But in Malachy who ever detected an idle — I say not word, but gesture? Who saw his hand or foot move without purpose? No, what was there not edifying in his gait, his aspect, his habit, his countenance? In a word, the cheerfulness of his face neither swelled with pride nor relaxed with levity. In him was the whole discipline — the whole mark of virtue, the very form of perfection. In all things serious yet not austere; at times relaxed, never dissolute; neglectful of nothing, though for the occasion dissembling much; often quiet, yet never idle. Moreover from the very first days of his conversion to the end of his life he lived without anything of his own. No servants, no handmaids, no villages, no hamlets — in short, nothing whatever of ecclesiastical or secular revenues did he have in the episcopate itself. To the bishop’s table nothing at all was appointed or assigned — from where was a bishop to live? For he had not even a house of his own. He was nearly incessantly going about all the parishes, serving the Gospel and living on the Gospel — as the Lord appointed for him: “the workman is worthy of his hire.” Save that more frequently he carried the Gospel itself without expense from his own labours and his companions, to sustain himself and those who laboured with him in the work of the ministry. Moreover, if at times he had to rest, he did so in the holy places which he himself had scattered throughout all Ireland. And among whomever it pleased him to stay, he conformed himself to their manners and observances, content with the common life and table; there was nothing in food, nothing in clothing, by which Malachy could be distinguished among the brethren. In proportion as the care was greater, he humbled himself in all things. In short, when he went out again to preach, he went on foot with the footmen — bishop and legate. This is the apostolic pattern — and the more wonderful in Malachy because too rare in others. He is truly the heir of the Apostles who does such things. But see how he divides the inheritance with those who boast themselves the Apostles’ peech: they lord it over the clergy — he, while he wanders free(?), made himself the servant of all. They eat while others preach the Gospel — Malachy, imitating Paul, fasts and preaches the Gospel. They claim for themselves benefices and revenues; Malachy claims the work and the burden for his inheritance. They believe themselves happy if they enlarge their bounds; Malachy glories in enlarging charity. They gather into barns and fill their vats, from which they may load their tables; Malachy gathers into deserts and solitudes, from which he may fill the heavens. They, while they take tithes and first-fruits and oblations, and moreover from Caesar’s benefaction tolls and tributes and other infinite revenues, are none the less solicitous what they shall eat or what they shall drink; Malachy, having none of these things, yet enriches many from the treasure of faith. Their cupidity and solicitude have no end; Malachy desires nothing — yet does not fail to think of the next day(?). They exact from the poor what they may give to the rich; he solicits the rich for the sustenance of the poor. They empty the purses of their subjects — he heaps their altars with the victims of his voice, with peace-offerings. They erect lofty palaces, raise towers and walls to the clouds; Malachy, having not where to lay his head, does the work of an evangelist. They mount horses amid a crowd of men biting at pomp(?), eating bread that is not theirs; Malachy, often on foot, surrounds the college of holy brethren — the breads of angels, with which he slakes the souls that hunger. They do not even know their own peoples — he instructs them. They honour the powerful and the tyrants — he punishes them. O apostolic man, whom so many signs of your apostleship ennoble! What wonder then, if the wonderful man wrought miracles? No rather, not he but God in him — otherwise “you are the God that do wonders.”

¹⁵ There was a woman in the city of Coleraine(?) who had a demon. Malachy was called to pray for her; approaching the invader he drove him out. But the wickedness of the demon was not yet exhausted: it attacked a wretched little woman who chanced to stand by. And Malachy said: “Not for this did I cast it out of her, that it should pass into you — go out of her!” At once it attacked the former one again, and again driven from her it entered the other. Thus for some time it kept vexing them alternately, fleeing here and there. Then the saint, indignant that he was being made game of, gathering his spirit together, rebuked the adversary, and making with all the powers of faith a charge upon him, expelled him from both — nor did it presume to vex those whom it had itself vexed. And in that it made delay with the saint, let not the reader think it was any want of power in him — it was by divine dispensation, that the presence of the malign one and the victory of Malachy might be made the more manifest. In short, hear what he did elsewhere, though not by his own presence. What he could do present he could do also absent: in the region of the northern part of Ireland a sick man lay in his house, doubtless under a malignity of demons. For on a certain night he heard them speaking, and one said to another: “See that the straw of that hypocrite does not touch his pallet — then he will escape our hands.” The man knew that they were speaking of Malachy, whom he remembered had lodged not long before in that same house; and taking up his straw, with faith and with what strength he could he began to crawl on his feeble body — but strong in faith. And see, in the air there was clamour and shouting: “Stop him, stop him! Hold him, hold him — we are losing our prey!” But he, whom faith and the desire to escape bore along — the more they cried, the more hastened on knees and hands toward the remedy. And arriving he climbed his bed, rolled himself in the straw, heard the wailing of the mourners: “Alas, alas, we have betrayed ourselves — we have been deceived; he has escaped!” And quicker than the word, the terror and horror of demons which he had suffered departed from him, and every sickness likewise. In the city of Lismore a man vexed by a demon was delivered through Malachy. Another time, passing through Fennor(?), an infant having a demon met him and was carried away healed. In the same region he loosed a frantic woman bound with ropes, and washed her in water which he had blessed — and she was healed. Another woman in the region of Delbna(?) tearing her own limbs with her teeth he cured by praying and touching. A madman who kept uttering many predictions of the future his friends and kinsfolk brought to the man of God bound tightly with ropes, because the strength of his madness rendered him dreadful and very terrible. Malachy prayed, and at once the sick man was healed and loosed. This was done in a certain place whose name I withhold, because it sounds too barbarous — as many others also. At another time in the aforementioned city of Lismore the parents of a dumb girl had presented her in the middle of the square, beseeching with much supplication that he would deign to visit her. Malachy stood still, and having prayed, touching her tongue with his finger he spat into her mouth — and dismissed her speaking. Going out of a certain church he met a man with his wife, who could not speak. Asked to have pity on her, he stood in the doorway, the people standing round; and giving a blessing over her, he bade her say the Lord’s Prayer. She said it, and the people blessed the Lord. In the city named Odorn(?), a certain rich woman lying in bed — already for twelve days deprived of the use of her tongue — at the invocation of the saint’s name recovered her speech; receiving the Eucharist she died in a good confession the same hour, breathing forth her spirit. O fruitful olive-tree in the house of God! O oil of gladness, anointing and shining! For by the splendour of the miracle he enlightened the healthy, and by the sweetness of the benefit he anointed the dying woman — to whom, dying, he obtained the salutary faculty of confessing. A certain nobleman came in to her who had something to say; while they were speaking — she full of faith — the servant(?) stole a cushion of the litter on which she lay; and God wrought many things by the faith of that man — witness his holiness.

¹⁶ Once in the city named Dublin, when he was sitting at table, there entered a nobleman of that city, humbly beseeching for his pregnant wife, who used to pass the term of delivery — so that all believed no other thing than that the peril of death was imminent. Nehemias, bishop of that city who was sitting beside him, asks with him — and the others also as many as were sitting at table with them. “You,” said he to him(?), “suffer with her, for she is a good woman and pious.” And reaching the man a cup over which he had made a blessing: “Go,” he said, “give her to drink, knowing that when the draught is taken there shall be no delay in the birth.” It was done as he commanded, and that same night followed what he had promised. He was sitting in the open country at a certain assembly, discoursing, a copious multitude round about them. There came a woman with child — and truly heavy — declaring that contrary to every law of nature she had been retaining the birth now fifteen months and twenty days. Malachy, taking pity on the novel and unheard-of evil, prays — and the woman brings forth; and those who were present were amazed and wondered. For all saw with what facility and speed she was delivered at the same hour — and the deadly peril of the birth was changed into a miracle. There befell in the same place a thing less indeed than a miracle, but perchance not less a benefit. He saw a man who was said publicly to keep his brother’s concubine — and he was a knight of the count’s household. And publicly addressing the incestuous man, he exhibited a second John: “It is not lawful for you,” he said, “to have your brother’s concubine.” But he, exhibiting in his turn no less a Herod, not only did not hear him but even answered haughtily and swore before all that he would never dismiss her. Then Malachy, moved — as he was vehemently zealous for justice — said: “And may God separate you from her, though unwilling!” Making light of it, the man went at once away indignant; and finding the woman not far from the crowd stationed in a place, as he was a slave of Satan he forcibly oppressed her — and the outrage was not hid. The handmaid who attended her mistress, running home (it was not far from the place), breathlessly reported what evil had befallen. At that word her brothers who were at home, zealous for their sister’s ravished chastity, flew headlong and, finding the enemy of modesty in the very place and act of the crime, slew him with many wounds — nor was the assembly yet dissolved when, see, his esquire reported what had happened. And all wondered then that the sentence of Malachy had so swift an effect. And the profligates feared on hearing this word (for they were many in the land) — and terrified, they were purged, washing their hands in the blood of a sinner. The count, whom he found now long bedridden, he sharply rebuked for being an evil man immoderately pursuing his lusts and gluttony — then, the water being blessed, he made him rise without delay, and feeling himself well he mounted his horse everywhere, beyond his own and his people’s hope. In the city of Cashel a man came with his paralytic son, praying that he might be healed. Malachy prayed briefly: “Go,” he said; “your son shall be healed.” He went, and returned the next day with his son — but not yet healed. Then Malachy, rising and standing over him, prayed longer — and he was healed. Then turning to the father: “Offer him to God,” he said. The man nodded, but did not fulfil it. After some years the same youth relapsed into the same condition — doubtless on account of the father’s disobedience and breach of the compact. Another man, coming from far away while Malachy was in the borders of Munster, brought to him a son wholly deprived of the use of his feet. When asked how it had befallen him: “As I suspect,” he said, “it is the malignity of demons — playing in the meadow they cast a sleep upon him, and the little boy waking found himself so.” Saying this, he poured out his prayer with tears and begged for help. Malachy took pity on him, prayed, and bade the sick boy sleep on the spot upon a little bed. He slept — and arose whole. Him, because he had come from far, he kept some while in his company, and he went about with him. In the monastery of Bangor a certain poor man was sustained by the brethren’s alms, receiving a daily dole, doing some work in the bakehouse. Lame for twelve years, crawling on his hands, he dragged his deadened feet behind him. Malachy, finding him one day sad and sighing before his cell, asked the cause. And he said: “you see how I am miserably afflicted from far away — the hand of the Lord is upon me; and see, to crown my misery, the men who ought to pity me rather mock me, upbraiding my misery.” When Malachy heard this, moved with pity he looked up to heaven, lifting his hands likewise. And when the short prayer was made he himself entered the cell — and the man arose and, standing on his feet, wondered whether it were truly he that he was, suspecting it almost a dream. Yet he began to move his feet little by little, for he could not sufficiently believe it possible. At last, as it were waking from a heavy sleep, he recognised the mercy of the Lord upon him, walked firmly and returned to the bakehouse, leaping and exulting and praising God. When they saw him who had before seen and known him, they were filled with stupor and ecstasy, thinking him a phantasm. Likewise he healed a dropsical man by prayer, who at once remained in the monastery, made a shepherd of the sheep.

¹⁷ A city of Ireland named Cork was vacant of a bishop; the election was treated of, the parties were at variance — each wishing (as is the custom) to constitute their own prelate, not God’s. Malachy came there on hearing of the contention. Convoking the clergy and people he took care to unite the hearts and vows of the discordant, and persuaded them that the whole business ought to be credited to him — that the solicitude chiefly devolved upon him, as upon the other churches throughout Ireland. At once he names not any of the nobles of the land, but rather a certain poor man whom he knew to be holy and learned — and he was a foreigner. He is sought; the report comes that he lies in bed and is so feeble that he cannot go out unless carried in the hands of ministers. And Malachy said: “Let him arise in the name of the Lord — I command it: obedience shall save him.” What was the man to do? He was unwilling to obey — yet he felt himself able. But even if he could, he dreaded the episcopate. Thus with the will to obey fighting a twin foe — the weight of weakness and the dread of the burden — the will prevailed, with the hope of health given him for aid. So he tries, he moves himself, tests his strength, finds himself stronger than he was custom. Faith grows with his strength, and strength made stronger in turn gives increase to faith. Now he is able to rise by himself; now to walk a little; now not even to feel weariness in walking; at last, unencumbered and eager, he reaches Malachy without any man’s help. Malachy set him in the episcopal chair, clergy and people applauding. This was done in peace because they did not dare to oppose Malachy’s will in anything, seeing the sign he had wrought — nor did the man hesitate to obey, made more secure by so evident a proof of the Lord’s will.

A certain woman suffered a flux of blood — and she was a noble lady, most dear to Malachy, yet more by the nobility of manners than of blood. Wholly failing (the forces being exhausted with the blood), now placed in the last extremity, she sent to the man of God that he might succour — what remained — her soul, since he would no longer see her in the body. Hearing this, Malachy took it ill that a woman of virtue, and fruitful to this life in work and example, should perish. And seeing that he could not run fast enough in time, calling Malchus — that he was a youth and swift, the same we mentioned above, brother of Abbot Christianus — “Make haste,” he said; “carry her these apples, over which I have invoked the Lord’s name. I trust in Him that where she tastes of them she shall not taste death before she sees us, though we follow after.” Malchus hastens at the bidding, and coming enters to the dying woman, showing himself a second child of Elisha — save that this one’s work was more efficacious. He bids her take the blessing sent her by Malachy and taste of it, if she can in any wise. But she, gladdened at the name of Malachy, signifies by a nod that she wishes to be raised a little, that she may obey — for she could not speak. She is raised, tastes, is strengthened by the tasting, speaks, gives thanks. And the Lord sent a sleep upon her, and she rested most sweetly in Him by whose use she had been strengthened, both in food and… Meanwhile the blood stopped, and after a little, waking, she found herself well — save that she was still weak from the long hunger and the diminution of blood. Whatever was lacking, the arrival of the desired Malachy and his presence perfected the next day.

A nobleman lived in the territory of the monastery of Bangor(?), whose wife, when she fell sick to death — Malachy was asked to come down before she died, to anoint the sick woman with oil. He came down and entered to her. Seeing him she rejoiced, animated by the hope of salvation. And when he made ready to anoint her, it seemed good to all to defer it rather until morning — for it was evening. Malachy acquiesced, and giving a blessing over the sick woman went out with those who were with him. But after a little while there was a sudden clamour, wailing and much tumult throughout the whole house — for it rang out that she was dead. Malachy runs at the tumult heard, and his disciples followed him. And approaching the bed, when he certainly learned that she had expired, he was troubled in soul, imputing to himself that she had died defrauded of the grace of the sacrament. And lifting his hands to heaven: “I beseech You, Lord,” he said — “I have acted foolishly, I have sinned, who deferred — not she, who wished.” Saying this he cried aloud in the hearing of all that he would receive no consolation, give no rest to his spirit, until he might restore grace to the dead woman. And standing over her he laboured the whole night in his groaning; and in place of the holy oil, drenching the dead woman with a copious shower of tears, he showed her the office of unction as he could. So much for himself. To his own he said: “Watch and pray.” And so they passed the sleepless night, some in psalms, he in tears. And at daybreak the Lord heard His saint, because the Spirit of the Lord was asking for him — who asks for the saints with groanings unutterable. What more? She who had been dead opened her eyes, and as those who wake from a heavy sleep are custom, rubbing her face and temples with her hands, she raised herself upon the bed; and recognising Malachy she bowed and devoutly saluted him. And wailing was turned into joy; stupor seized all who saw and heard it. And Malachy, giving thanks, blessed the Lord — and anointed her none the less, knowing that in this sacrament sins are remitted, that “the prayer of faith shall save the sick man.” After this he went from there, and she grew strong and lived whole some while — that the Lord’s glory might be manifested in her — until, the penance accomplished which Malachy had enjoined on her in a good confession, she fell asleep again and departed to the Lord.

¹⁸ There was another woman whom a spirit of wrath and fury so dominated that not only did neighbours and kinsfolk flee her company, but her own sons could scarce endure to dwell with her. Clamour and rancour and a mighty tempest wherever she was — bold and burning and headlong, to be feared in tongue and in hand, intolerable to all and hateful. Her sons, grieving both for her and for themselves, dragged her into Malachy’s presence, laying down a tearful complaint with weeping. The holy man, pitying the mother’s peril and the sons’ hardship, called her apart and solicitously asked whether she had ever confessed her sins. She answered: “Not at all.” “Confess,” he said. She obeyed; and he, enjoining a penance on the confessing woman and praying over her, commanded that Almighty God give her a spirit of meekness in the name of Jesus, lest she be wrathful any more. There followed such meekness that all who knew her knew it as nothing else than the admirable change of the right hand of the Most High. She is said to live to this day, and to be of such patience and gentleness that she who used to exasperate all cannot now be exasperated by any manner of losses, insults or afflictions. And indeed, that I may be found in my own sense according to the Apostle — let each one take it as he will; I judge this miracle of a raging woman to be preferred even to the raising of the dead woman above, since there it was the outer man, here the inner, that revived. And now let us run to the rest.

¹⁹ A man honourable in the world’s esteem and God-fearing came to Malachy complaining of the barrenness of his soul, beseeching that he would obtain for him from Almighty God the grace of tears. And Malachy, smiling that a secular man should have so pleasing a spiritual desire, joined his own cheek to the man’s cheek as though caressing him: “Be it done to you,” he said, “as you have asked.” From then on his eyes drew down such copious and almost continual outgoings of water that that word of Scripture seemed fit to be applied to him: “A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters.”

There is an island of the sea in Ireland which of old abounded in fish, and the sea there was very fishy. For the sins (as is believed) of the inhabitants, its wonted plenty was taken away; it had many sons — it fell sick, and from so great a commodity of itself it withered utterly. The inhabitants grieving and the people taking the heavy loss ill, it was revealed to a certain woman that a remedy could be procured by the prayers of Malachy — and this became known to all, she herself announcing it. It came to pass by God’s will that Malachy came there. For while he was going about filling the region with the Gospel, he turned aside there to impart the same grace to them also. But the barbarians, to whom care for fish was greater, kept beseeching him with all insistence that he would rather deign to look upon the barrenness of their island. When he answered that he had not come for this — that he desired the catch of men rather than of fish — yet seeing their faith, on bended knees upon the shore he prayed to the Lord that, though they were unworthy, He would not deny the benefit to those who asked it with such faith, which had once been taken away. The prayer went up — and up came a multitude of fish, perchance more abundant than in ancient days, and it has remained to the people of that land even to this day. What wonder if the prayer of a just man, which penetrates the heavens, penetrated the abysses and from the depth of the sea called forth such supplies of fish?

²⁰ Once three bishops came into the village of Faughart, which they call the place of the birth of the virgin Brigid — and Malachy was the fourth. To him the priest who had received them in hospitality said: “What shall I do, since I have no fish?” When he answered that he should inquire of the fishermen: “Two years ago,” they said, “fish ceased to be found in the river — and the fishermen have wholly despaired of their craft and given it up.” And he said: “Bid them cast their nets in the name of the Lord.” It was done, and twelve salmon were caught. A second time they cast, and as many were caught — bearing to the table an unexpected dish and a miracle. And that it may be clear that this was given by the merits of Malachy, the same sterility none the less persisted in the two following years.

There was a certain cleric in Lismore of a reputable life (as is said), but not so of faith. Wise in his own eyes, he presumed to say that in the Eucharist there is only the sacrament and not the thing of the sacrament — that is, only sanctification and not the truth of the Body. Rebuked secretly and often by Malachy but uncorrected, he was called to a judgement — apart however from the laity — that if possible he might be corrected and not confounded. And so in a meeting of clergy the faculty was given him of answering for his own opinion. And when he strove with all the powers of his ingenuity (in which he was not meanly versed) to assert and defend the error, Malachy disputing against him and convicting him — by the judgement of all he was vanquished, and went away confounded indeed but not corrected. He said moreover that he had not been overcome by reason but crushed by the bishop’s authority. “And you, O Malachy,” he said, “have you confounded me to-day, speaking truth out of season(?) and against my own conscience?” Malachy, pitying the man so hardened, but grieving more for the injury to the faith, foreseeing the peril, convoked the church; publicly rebuked the wanderer; publicly warned him to desist. When the bishops and the whole clergy persuaded him of this same thing and he would not acquiesce, they pronounced him anathema, declaring him a heretic. “And do not be deceived,” he said: “all you have been able to favour the man rather than the truth. I accept not the person — I defend the truth.” At this word Malachy said: “The Lord shall make him confess the truth, even of necessity.” He answering “Amen,’ the meeting was dissolved. The vanquished man meditated flight — unable to bear to be infamous and dishonoured. And he was already going out at once when, see, suddenly seized by infirmity he stayed his step, and his faculties failing he sat breathless on a seat in the same place. By chance at that spot a wandering madman found the man, and asked what he was doing there. He answered that he was held by a grave infirmity, able neither to proceed nor to return. And he: “That infirmity is none other than death itself.” This he spoke not of himself — but the Lord wrought it beautifully through the madman, for him who had been unwilling to acquiesce in the counsels of the sane. And he added: “Return home — I will help you.” In short, with him as guide he returns into the city, returns to his senses and to the mercy of the Lord. At the same hour the bishop is fetched; the truth is acknowledged, the error cast off; confessing the faith he is absolved; he asks for the viaticum; it is given to the reconciled man — and in almost the same moment of time perfidy is renounced and dissolved by death. So by all these means with all celerity the word of Malachy was fulfilled, and the Scripture saying likewise: “Vexation shall give understanding to the hearing.”

²¹ Between the peoples of certain regions a grave discord once arose; Malachy was besought concerning the making of peace between them. Being otherwise hindered he enjoined the business upon one of the bishops. The man excused himself, refused, and said that Malachy had not been sought but himself despised — that he would labour in vain, etc. “Go,” said Malachy, “and the Lord shall be with you.” And he: “I acquiesce — but if they do not hear me, know that I shall appeal to your paternity.” Malachy smiled: “Be it so.” Then the bishop, the parties being convoked, dictated the form of peace; they acquiesce, are reconciled to one another, faith being given on both sides the peace is established — and he let them go. But one party, seeing the enemies made secure and unarmed (since with peace made they suspected nothing evil), began to say to one another, and each man to his neighbour: “What are we minded to do? Victory is in our hands, and vengeance upon our enemies” — and they ran to pursue them. It was not hid from the bishop what was being done; and running he met their leader concerning the iniquity and the guile — but was spurned by him. He invoked the name of Malachy against him, that he might count it for nothing — the leader mocking the bishop: “Think you,” he said, “that for your sake we ought to lose our malefactors whom God has delivered into our hands?” And the bishop, remembering his own word which he had had with Malachy, weeping and wailing turned his face to his monastery: “Where are you, man of God, where are you? Is not this my fatherland(?) — what I told you? Alas, alas, I came to do good and not evil; and all those have taken me — some in body, some in soul(?).” Many such things he spoke, lamenting and bewailing, and as though soliciting and summoning the absent Malachy against the malign ones. Meanwhile the impious men did not desist from pursuing those with whom they had made peace, to destroy them — when see, a lying spirit in the mouth of certain men deceived them. And there met them in the way men announcing that an irruption had been made into their lands by adversaries, that all was being consumed by the edge of the sword, their goods plundered, their wives and children also carried off. Hearing which they returned in haste; the last followed the first, not knowing where they went or what had happened — for not all had heard the speakers. And when they had come and found none of the things announced, they were confounded, detected in their own malice. And they knew that they had been delivered out of the spoilers’ mous on account of Malachy’s messenger whom they had deceived, and whose name they had spurned. Moreover the bishop, hearing that the traitors had been frustrated of the iniquity they had plotted, returned with joy to Malachy, recounting all things in order that had befallen him. But Malachy, knowing that peace had been disturbed by such occasion, finding an opportune time, took care through himself to form the peace anew between them, and to confirm it — faith and oath being given and received on both sides. But those to whom peace had formerly been granted, mindful of the injury, neglecting the compact and Malachy’s precept, took counsel concerning the rendering of vengeance. And gathering all into one they went to forestall the unready and return upon their own head the evil they had plotted. And when they had easily crossed a great river that lay between, a little streamlet which they met not far from it held them. For no longer did a streamlet but plainly a great river appear, everywhere denying passage to those who wished to cross. All wondered that so great a stream was now where before there had been so little — and they said among themselves: “From where this inundation? The air is serene — there are no rains, nor were there lately as we remember. And though it had rained much, whoever has hitherto remembered in any flood its so growing as to cover the land, to reach the raths and meadows? It is the finger of God — and the Lord has stopped our ways on account of His own Malachy, whose covenant we have transgressed, whose commandment we have broken.” Thus, their business undone, they returned each to his own. The word was spread through the whole region, and they blessed God who takes the wise in their own craftiness, and breaking the horns of sinners has exalted the horn of His Christ.

A certain nobleman, at enmity with the king, was reconciled through Malachy’s hand — for the man did not trust the king to make peace with him except by Malachy’s mediation or whom the king revered; and not undeservedly, as afterwards appeared. For when the compact was made secure, and he deemed himself least of all in need of caution — the king, captured by the ancient hatred, cast him into bonds. The man is sought from the hand of the mediator — and what can friends expect but death? What was Malachy to do? There is nothing he can do — save to recur to that usual and sole refuge. Gathering a mighty strong host — a great company of his disciples — he goes to the man, requires the prisoner; it is refused. And Malachy said: “You deal unjustly against the Lord and against me and against yourself, transgressing the compact. You dissembl — but I do not. The man trusted himself to my faith; if he should die, I have betrayed him — I am guilty of his blood. What seemed good to you — to constitute me a traitor and you a transgressor? Know that as long as he is not freed I shall taste nothing — nor shall these.” So speaking he enters the church; he beseeches Almighty God with his own and his people’s anxious groanings, that He would deign to rescue the unjustly condemned from the hand of the transgressor and wicked man. And that day with the following night they passed in fasting and prayer. Word was brought to the king what was being done — and the more was his heart hardened thereby, from which it ought to have been softened. The carnal man took to flight, fearing lest if he remained near he might not withstand the power of the prayer. But where shall he flee — what hiding-place shall not be found, to what distance shall it not reach? Wonder you at the wonderful discourses of the saints? Is not a just prayer an arrow that you may flee from the face of the bow? Where shall the Spirit of God go that bears it — and from His face where shall you flee? In short, as he fled it followed him — it found him lurking. And see he is blind and sees not — that you may the better see and understand that “it is hard for you to kick against the pricks.” Know even now that the arrows of the mighty archer have reached you — which though they have rebounded from the heart because it is flint, yet not from the eyes. Would that through the windows of the eyes at least they might reach even to the heart, and vexation give understanding to the blind man! you would see Saul again drawn to the hands and led to Ananias — to the sheep, that is, from the wolf — to give back the prey. He resisted — and he received sight, because Malachy had prayed so far that he might have mercy upon the wolf. Diligently mark from these things, reader, with what manner of men was the habitation of Malachy — what princes, what peoples! How was he not a brother of dragons and a companion of ostriches? Therefore the Lord gave him power of treading upon serpents and scorpions, of binding their kings in fetters, their nobles in manacles of iron. Then hear what follows.

²² When the possessions of the monastery of Bangor had been ceded — the man ungrateful for the benefit from from then on always conducted himself most insolently against him and his people, hostile to him in all things, everywhere plotting against and detracting from his deeds. And not unpunished: for his only son, the emulator of his father, daring something likewise against Malachy, died that same year. Now when the man was dead it seemed good to Malachy that a stone oratory should be built at Bangor, after the likeness of those he had seen built in other regions. And when he began to lay the foundations, certain of the natives wondered that in that land no edifice of that kind had yet been found. But that wicked man — as he was presumptuous and insolent — not only wondered but was indignant. From which indignation he conceived grief and brought forth iniquity. And there was a murmuring in the peoples — now secretly detracting, now openly blaspheming, marking the levity, abhorring the novelty, exaggerating the cost. With such venomous discourses soliciting and inducing many to prohibit it. “Follow me,” he said; “what ought not to be done save by us, let us not suffer to be done against us.” And so with many whom he had been able to persuade he went down to the place, found the man of God, addressed him — he himself the leader of the word, who was the beginning of the evil: “O good man, what has seemed good to you — to introduce this novelty into our regions? We are Scots, not Gauls. What levity is this? What need was there of a work so superfluous, so proud? From where to you, poor and needy, the means to finish it? Who shall see it perfected? What presumption is this — to begin what you can not, I say not finish, but even see perfected? Though it is rather madness than prudence to attempt what exceeds measure, surpasses strength, outruns means. Come, desist from this madness; otherwise we shall not suffer it, we cannot endure it.” He said this, showing what he wished, not considering what he could do. For those on whom he presumed, and whom he had brought with him, on seeing the man were changed — and now they were not going with him. To whom the holy man said with all liberty: “Wretch — the work which you see begun and enviest shall without doubt be perfected; many shall see it perfected. You, because you will not, shall not see it; and what you will not, you shall die — no, I tell you: you shall die in your sin.” So it was — he died, and the work was completed; but he did not see it — the man of whom we have spoken died that same year. Meanwhile the father, hearing at once what the holy man had foretold of his son, knowing his word to be living and effectual: “He has slain my son,” he said. And at the devil’s instigation he burned with such fury against him that before the duke and the great men of Ireland he did not scruple to charge with falsehood and lying the man who was most truthful — a disciple and lover of the truth — and heaped abuse upon him, calling him an ape. And Malachy indeed, taught not to render railing for railing, held his peace and opened not his mouth while the sinner stood against him. But the Lord was not forgetful of His word which He had spoken: “Vengeance is mine, and I will repay.” That same day the man returned home and expiated the rashness of his unbridled tongue by the very avenger of which he complained: the demon seized him and cast him into the fire — but he was soon snatched out by the hands of those sitting by, yet part of his body was burnt and he was taken in mind. And while he raved, Malachy was called and came; and finding the accursed man gnashing with foaming mouth, terrifying all with horrid cries and movements, his whole body so shaken that it could scarce be held by many — the man of all perfection prayed for his enemy and was heard, but in part. For indeed at once, while the saint prayed, the man opened his eyes and received his senses. But an evil spirit of the Lord was left to him, to buffet him that he might learn not to blaspheme. We believe that he lives to this day, and to these times expiates the great sin which he sinned against the saint — yet they say that at certain seasons he is lunatic. Now the aforementioned possessions, when he could no longer hold them in the condition of their uselessness, returned in peace to the place from which they had been taken. Nor did Malachy refuse it, after much vexation at last, on the pretext of peace. But now let the discourse return to the work of building which Malachy had undertaken. And indeed Malachy had not, I say not wherewith to finish it, but wherewith to do anything. Yet his heart had trust in the Lord. And the Lord provided — so that even if he hoped not in treasures of money, money was not lacking. For who else caused that a treasure should be laid up in that place — laid up and not found — until the time and work of Malachy? The servant of God found in God’s purse what was lacking to his own. And deservedly: for what is more just than that he who had nothing of his own for God should have fellowship with God — and one purse be common to both? To the faithful man the whole world of riches belongs. And what is that, save that God’s purse gives? For He says: ‘Mine is the earth’s orb and the fulness thereof.’ Hence it is that Malachy did not lay up the many silver pieces found, but laid them out — for he bade the whole gift of God be expended on the work of God. He considered not his own necessities nor his people’s, but cast his care upon the Lord — to whom he did not hesitate to have recourse as often as need required. And it is not doubtful that it was God’s work which, God revealing, Malachy foresaw. He had first conferred with the brethren about that work, and many for want were less willing to assent. From there anxious and doubtful what he should do, he began meanwhile to inquire in prayer more vehemently what the will of God might be. And on a certain day, returning from the city, when he already drew near the place, he looked forward — and see, an oratory appeared, great, of stone, and very beautiful. And marking the site, form and composition diligently, with confidence he seized upon the work — the vision having first been indicated to the elder brethren, though few. In short, all that he attentively noted of the place, mode and quality he observed with such diligence that the finished work appeared most like the vision — as if he too had heard with Moses: “See that you make all things according to the pattern which was shown you on the mount.” By the same kind of vision was also foreshown to him what is situated at Mellifont before it was — not only the oratory but the whole monastery.

²³ As he passed through a certain city and a great multitude ran together to him, by chance he saw among the rest a youth eager to see him: he had mounted a stone and, standing on the tips of his toes with neck outstretched, intent upon him with eyes and soul, presented there a new Zacchaeus. Nor was it hidden from Malachy — the Holy Spirit indeed revealing it — that the youth had truly come in the spirit and power of Zacchaeus. He dissembled then however, and passed by. But that night in his lodging he related to the brethren how he had seen him and what he had foreseen of him. On the third day the man came with a certain nobleman his lord, who opened the youth’s wish and desire, begging that he would deign to receive him, being commended, and have him henceforth among his own. And Malachy, recognising him, said: “There is no need that a man commend one whom God has already commended.” And taking him by the hand he entrusted him to our abbot Congan, and he to the brethren. The same youth (still living, if I err not) was the first layman converted at the monastery of Mellifont — he has testimony from all that he lived holily among the brethren according to the Cistercian order. And the disciples knew that in this also Malachy had the spirit of prophecy. Not only in this however, but also in what we shall subjoin: when he was offering the sacraments and the deacon approached him to do something for his office, the priest looking at him groaned, because he felt he was unfit and was concealing what was not fitting. When the sacrifice was accomplished, he questioned him apart about his conscience; he confessed and did not deny that he had been deluded by a dream in the night. To whom he, enjoining a penance: “you ought not to have ministered to-day; but you should have withdrawn modestly from the holy things, and abstain from so great and divine mysteries, that purified by this humility you might minister more worthily thereafter.” Likewise at another time, when he was sacrificing and praying in the hour of sacrifice — with that holiness and purity of heart wherewith he was custom — a deacon standing by, a dove was seen to enter through the window in a great brightness. The priest is bathed in it all over; by its splendour the whole basilica, otherwise darker, shone. And the dove, hovering some while, at last settled upon the cross before the priest’s face. The deacon was astounded — fearing both for the novelty of the light and of the bird, since so rare a bird in that land — and fell upon his face, and scarce palpitating could raise himself even when the necessity of his office demanded. After Mass, addressed apart by Malachy under peril of his life he was charged on no account to betray the secret he had seen while Malachy lived. Once when he was at Armagh with a certain co-bishop of his, arising by night he began to go the round in prayer of the saints’ memorials which are many in the cemetery of St Patrick — and see, they saw one of the altars suddenly burning. For both saw this great vision and both wondered. And Malachy, understanding that it was a sign of the great merit of him or of those whose bodies rested beneath that altar, running and plunging himself into the middle of the flames with arms outstretched embraced the sacred altar. What he did there, or what he felt, none of the brethren who were then with him can tell — but that he came out of that fire more inflamed than usual with the heavenly fire, I think there is none who is ignorant.

²⁴ These things have been told — few indeed out of many, but many for the time. For these are not the times of signs, according to that word: “We have not seen our signs; there is now no prophet.” From where it sufficiently appears how great my Malachy was in merits, who stood forth so manifold in signs and so great in charity. For in what manner of the ancients’ miracle did Malachy not shine? If we attend to them — the very things which have been told: prophecy was not wanting to him, nor revelation, nor vengeance on the impious, nor the grace of healings, nor the change of minds, nor finally the raising of the dead. Through all, blessed be God who so loved him and adorned him, who also magnified him in the sight of kings and gave him the crown of glory. His love is proved in merits, his adornment in signs, his magnification in the vengeance on enemies, his glorification in the retribution of rewards. you have, diligent reader, in Malachy what you may merit; you have also what you may imitate: now mark studiously what you may hope from these things. For the end of this man is “precious death.”

²⁵ Once he was asked in what place, if the choice were given, he would wish to spend his last day — for the brethren were indeed inquiring this among themselves, whom each one should love(?) — he smiled and did not answer. When they pressed: “If I depart hence,” he said, “nowhere more gladly than from which I may rise again together with our apostle” — he meant St Patrick. “But if I must be a pilgrim — and if God so permits — I have chosen Clairvaux.” Asked likewise concerning the time, he answered: the solemn day of all the dead — All Souls. If it be thought a simple vow, it was fulfilled; if a prophecy, the place was not passed by. As we heard, so we saw, of the place and the day alike. Let us tell briefly in what order, on what occasion this came to pass. He bore it ill enough that Ireland should hitherto have lacked the pallium — as an emulator of the sacraments, of which he was unwilling that his nation should be defrauded of even one. And remembering that it had been promised him by Pope Innocent, he was the sadder that while the pope still lived nothing had been sent for it. And finding occasion — that Pope Eugene held the summit of rule and was then reported to have approached into France — he rejoiced at the opportunity of asking, now found. For he presumed upon him especially for a two-fold reason: known to him by sight, and known to him by profession assumed(?); but most of all because he had been a special son of his own Clairvaux — nor did he fear he would sustain any difficulty with him. And so the bishops are convoked, a council is summoned, the matters pressing on the time were treated for two days, on the fourth day the counsel is opened concerning the requesting of the pallium. It pleases — but that it be sought through another. Yet because the shorter way and the more tolerable pilgrimage seemed for this reason, there was none who presumed to oppose his counsel and will. And Malachy dissolves the council; he takes to the road. The brethren escort him to the shore — not many however, for he forbade it. To whom one of them, Cathbad(?) by name, said with mournful voice and weeping: “Alas, you go away — and in what perils, what daily vexation you linger(?) you know not, nor pitiest me, to offer no help. If I am worthy who suffer — what have the brethren sinned, who are scarce suffered to have a single day or night free from the laborious care and custody of me?” At these words and tears of a son (for he was weeping) the father’s bowels were shaken; and he embraced him caressingly and impressed the sign of the cross upon his breast: “Be certain of this,” he said, “that you shall suffer nothing of the kind until I return.” Now the man was epileptic, and fell frequently — at times not once but oftener in a day; he had now laboured six years under this horrid disease, but at Malachy’s word he was perfectly healed. From that hour he suffered nothing of the kind, and we trust that he will never suffer such again — since Malachy will never return again. At the very ascent of the ship two of his men accost him who clung most familiarly to him, asking and seeking something of him. To whom he: “What do wish?” “We shall not tell,” they say, “unless you promise to grant it.” He promises; and they: “We wish to be certainly promised by your condescension that you will return safe to Ireland.” And all the others likewise pressed. Then he, deliberating a little — repenting at first that he had bound himself, since he found no way out — while straits met him on every side from a twofold danger, of a vow namely or of a promise, at last it seemed better to choose what availed more for the present, committing the rest to the supreme disposition. Sad indeed he assents — but rather he was unwilling to sadden them; and answering them as they wished, he mounted the ship. And when they had already traversed nearly half the sea, a contrary wind suddenly drove back the ship and brought it back into a harbour of Ireland. Descending from the ship he passed the night in the very port in a certain church of his own. And gladly he gave thanks to the divine counsel of providence by which it was brought about that he was now safe from blame for his promise. And in the morning entering the ship he crossed the channel that same day in a prosperous course and came into Scotland. On the third day he came to the place called Viride Stagnum — Greenloch — which he had caused to be prepared that there he might place an abbey. And leaving there certain of his sons our brethren, a convent of monks and an abbot — for he had brought them with him for this very purpose — bidding them farewell he went forward. And when he was crossing, King David met him — was received by him with joy and detained some days, and having wrought many things pleasing to God he resumed the journey begun. And passing through Scotland, on the very border of England he turned aside to the church of Glastonbury, where men of religion dwell leading the canonical life — his familiars of old on account of his religion and humanity. There was brought to him a woman suffering the disease which they vulgarly call cancer — horrible to see — and he healed her. For when the places of the ulcers were sprinkled with the water which he had blessed she felt no pain; and on the following day the ulcers scarcely appeared. Departing from there he came to the sea — but passage was denied him. The cause, unless I err, was a certain quarrel arisen between the supreme pontiff and the king of England, so that the king suspected some evil of that good man should he cross. For he suffered not other bishops to cross either. Which impediment indeed was contrary to Malachy’s will, but not to his vow. He grieved to be delayed from his desire, not knowing that by this it would rather be fulfilled. For had he crossed at once, he would have had to cross even past Clairvaux to follow the supreme pontiff — for he had already gone and was at Rome or near Rome. But now, by the intercession of the delay, it came about that crossing later he would fall in opportunely with the place and hour of his most holy death.

²⁶ He was received by us as a true orient visiting us from on high(?). O how much did that sun of brightness shining upon our Clairvaux add to the day — how joyful a day dawned for us at his approach! “This is the day which the Lord has made; let us exult and rejoice in it.” How swift and leaping, trembling and feeble, he himself at once met me! How joyful in his look, with what joyful arms the wondrous heavenly grace — I embraced him! With what cheerful countenance and mind, my father, did I bring you into the house of my mother and into the chamber of my parent! How festive the days I then led with you — but how few! And what did he show us in turn? Gay, affable, our guest showed himself to all — to all incredibly gracious. How good and pleasant a guest he made himself among those whom from the ends of the earth he had come to see — not to hear Solomon, but to exhibit him! In short, we heard his wisdom, we held his presence — and we hold it. Already four or five days of this solemnity had flowed by when, see, on the solemn day of the blessed evangelist Luke, having celebrated Mass in the assembly with his own holy devotion, he was seized by a fever and took to his bed — and we with him, all of us. Mourning occupied the end of our joy — yet with moderation, because the fever seemed meanwhile to be lighter. You might see the brethren running to and fro, eager to give and to receive. To whom was it not sweet to see him — to whom not sweeter to minister to him? Both were sweet, both salutary: it was humanity to offer the service, and his progress(?) that he should report himself grateful. All attended, all were solicitous about him — to procure frequent remedies, to apply fomentations, to urge him often to taste. To whom he: “In vain,” he said, “are these things — yet for your charity’s sake I know what you enjoin.” For he knew that the time of his departure was at hand. And when the brethren who had come with him confidently insisted, saying that they ought not to despair of his life, since no signs of death appeared in him: “It must be,” he said, “that this year Malachy depart from the body.” And again: “See the day draws near which — as you well know — I have always hoped would be the day of my release. I know whom I have believed, and I am certain: I shall not be defrauded of the remainder of my desire — I who already hold a part, whom His mercy has brought to the place I sought. The term I wished for He has not denied. As for this little body — here is my rest; as for the soul, the Lord will provide, who saves them that hope in Him. Nor do I repose small hope for myself in this day, in which so many benefits are bestowed on the living by the dead.” Nor was that day itself far off when he spoke these things. Meanwhile he bids himself be anointed with the holy oil. When the assembly of brethren crowded round as is the solemn custom, he did not let them to come up to him — he himself came down to them. For he lay in the upper room, the upper house. He is anointed, and the viaticum being taken, bidding farewell to the brethren and commending the brethren to God he returned to his bed. From the high seat he came down on his own feet; and again likewise he went up on his own feet — and they said he would die in his senses(?). Who would believe this man about to die? Only he himself and God could know it. His countenance was not paler, not more emaciated was he seen, his brow not wrinkled, his eyes not sunken, his nostrils not thinned, his lips not contracted, his teeth not dried(?), his neck not eaten away and thin, his shoulders not bent, his flesh not wasted in the rest of his body. This was the grace of his body and this the glory of his countenance, which is not evacuated even by death. Such as he lived, such he appeared dead — more like one sleeping.

²⁷ We have come thus far, but here we stick fast, because Malachy has finished his course. He stands — and we likewise stand with him. For who would willingly run to a death? Especially yours, holy father — who could relate it, who would wish to hear it? Yet since we loved in life, in death we shall not be separated. Let us not abandon in death the brother whom in life we have followed. From the farthermost Scotland to death he has run — let us go also and die with him. It must be spoken — what it is hateful even to see. The renowned solemnity of All Saints is present; but according to the old saying, “in a game of music a sad tale is told.” We are present — we sing though unwilling. Weeping we sing, and singing we weep. Malachy sings — yet weeps not. For what should he weep, who draws near to joy? For us who are left behind, mourning is left — Malachy alone keeps festival. For what he cannot do in body he does in mind, as it is written: “The thought of man shall confess to You, and the remnants of the thought shall keep a feast-day to You.” When the instrument of the body fails him, when the organ of the mouth is silent, when the office of the voice ceases — it remains that he solemnise with the jubilation of the mind. And why should he not keep festival with the saints, who is led to the solemnity of the saints? He shows them what is soon due to himself. Yet a little while, and he himself is one of them. Meanwhile in the twilight, when the celebration had now for us been accomplished in any wise, Malachy drew near to the evening — but to a dawn. Is not that a dawn for him to whom night has passed and day has drawn near? And so, the fever growing stronger, a sweat began to break out over his whole body — that passing as it were through fire and water he might be brought out into a place of refreshment. Now all despair of his life; now each calls back his own judgement; now none doubts that Malachy’s sentence will prevail. They are called; we are present. And he, lifting his eyes upon the bystanders: “With desire I have desired,” he said, “to eat this Passover with you. I give thanks to the supernal goodness — I have not been defrauded of my desire.” See the man secure in death, and not yet dead, already certain of life! Nor is it wonderful. Seeing the night approaching which he had expected, and himself to die in that day — as though triumphing over the night he seems to insult the darkness and in a manner to say: “Now I shall not say: ‘Perhaps the darkness will tread me under’ — for this night is my enlightenment in my delights.” And gently consoling us: “He has care of me,” he said; “I shall have care of you — if it shall be permitted, I shall not forget. And it shall be permitted. I have believed in God, and all things are possible to him that believes. I have loved God — I have loved you; and charity never fals away.” And looking up to heaven: “O God,” he said, “keep them in Your name — and not them only, but all who through my word and ministry have bound themselves to Your service.” Last of all, laying his hands on each one and blessing all, he bade them go to rest — for his hour had not yet come. We return about the middle of the night — for it was at that hour that the light was announced to shine in the darkness. The house is filled; the whole congregation is present. Many abbots also who had come together — with psalms and hymns and spiritual canticles we escort our friend on his journey home. In the fifty-fourth year of his age, in the place and at the time which he had fore-chosen and foretold, Malachy the bishop, legate of the Holy Apostolic See, as it were from our hands was taken up by angels, and fell asleep diligently in the Lord. And he fell asleep: a placid countenance, a tranquil brow gave the sign. And indeed all eyes were upon him — yet none could perceive when he went forth. And living he was thought dead; so little was there between them to distinguish the one from the other. The same liveliness of countenance, the same serenity as is accustomed to appear in one sleeping. You would say death had been the cause of none of these things — had rather increased them greatly. He is not changed — but he has changed us all. In wondrous wise the weeping and groaning of all is suddenly stilled, mourning is changed into joy, chanting excludes wailing. He is carried out; voices are borne to heaven; he is brought into the oratory on the abbots’ shoulders. Faith has conquered, affection triumphs — the matter has come to its own state; all things are done in order, all proceed according to reason.

²⁸ And truly what reason is there in mourning immoderately for Malachy — as though his death were not precious, as though it were not rather sleep than death, as though it were not the port of death and the gate of life? Malachy our friend sleeps — and shall I mourn? He preserves himself by usage, not by reason. If the Lord has given His beloved sleep, and such a sleep in which is the inheritance of the Lord, sons, the reward, the fruit of the womb — which of these seems to indicate weeping? I do not grieve for him who has escaped by weeping — he has escaped, he triumphs, he has been led into the joy of his Lord — and shall I weep for him? I desire these things for myself.

Meanwhile the funeral rites are prepared, the sacrifice is offered for him — all things are accomplished with the utmost devotion after the custom. A certain boy stood by whose dead arm hung from his side — more a hindrance to him than a help. When this was learned, I signed to him to approach. And grasping the withered hand he applied it to the bishop’s hand — and it revived it. For grace lived in the dead man, and his hand was to a dead hand what the dead man was to the living Elisha(?). That boy had come from far, and carried back into his fatherland whole the hand which he had brought hanging. Now, all these things having been accomplished, Malachy is handed over to burial in the very oratory of the blessed mother of God Mary — in whom he was well pleased — in the year of the Lord’s Incarnation one thousand one hundred and forty-eight, the fourth day before the Nones of November. Yours, good Jesus, is the deposit which has been entrusted to us, whose treasure is stored up with us. We keep him, to be handed back in the time when you shall have judged him due to be asked back — provided that he go not forth without his own bedfellows; but whom we have had as a guest, may we have as our guide to heaven — and with him likewise to reign for ever and ever. Amen.