Now, for the first time, let Ireland figure in our pageant. So far England has never intruded upon this “green isle of the west.” Centuries have come and gone since the Kelts first crossed into Erin and subdued the primitive inhabitants by force of arms. Legends, many and wondrously beautiful, still remain of those early times, and men read them to-day with a new and kindling interest. A strange dreamland it is of gods and wizards, heroes and beauteous ladies.

We do not, however, tread the solid ground of history until the coming of St. Patrick, who “preached, baptized, and prayed; from the praise of God he ceased not.” In the days of his successors Ireland became the Isle of Saints, and sent forth her missionaries to less favoured lands. At length invaders arrived; the Vikings descended with fire and sword, and after terrible conflicts settled in certain coastwise towns of the eastern shore. Bold Brian Boru, however, clipped their wings at Clontarf, and Ireland still remained unsubdued. When, however, King Henry of England began to meditate on the conquest of the sister isle, Ireland had long fallen from her high estate. All that St. Patrick and his successors had done to civilize the island had disappeared during the long and desperate struggle with the Danes. Ireland was a sad, despairing land, where peace never reigned and men never ceased from foray and slaughter.

Now, turn your eyes to the historic figures who pass us by. Foremost among them you see a dark-visaged “king,” with his collar of gold and his mantle of fur. He is Diarmid, King of Leinster, though his kingdom is shadowy enough at present; for he has been driven out of Ireland by the high-king and a chief whom he has grievously wronged. This Diarmid, smitten by the charms of Devorgilla, wife of the one-eyed chief of Breffni, has carried off the lady, and now he is suffering for his gallantry. He has posted to King Henry, offering him homage in return for assistance in recovering his throne. Henry has other business on hand just now, and he cannot entertain the enterprise in person. He gives the errant king, however, letters-patent permitting all liegemen of the English crown to assist him in recovering his territory.

So Diarmid hies him to Bristol, the great western seaport, and there meets with the second figure in the group now passing before us. Look well at this tall, ruddy, gray-eyed Norman knight, for he is the first to set up English rule in Ireland. He is Richard Strongbow of Clare, Earl of Pembroke, a “landless resolute,” a man of no very good character, but warlike, and with the courage and cunning of his race. You would not think so to speak with him. His voice is soft and gentle, his manner is courteous, but behind it all there is unmistakable determination and daring. Strongbow agrees to throw in his lot with Diarmid, and the price of his assistance is the fair maiden who walks by her father’s side. Eva is nothing loath to accept the debonair Norman knight as her husband, so all goes well.

The buds are bursting into leaf on the Irish trees when the advance-guard of the invaders see the blue hills of Wicklow before them. After some dubious fighting, they seize Wexford, and begin to harry the surrounding country. Raymond the Fat, Strongbow’s nephew, a stout, rosy, valiant knight, arrives in May with reinforcements, and several hard-fought successes are gained. Then comes Strongbow with the main force, and a combined attack is made on Waterford, which is, in sooth, a hard nut to crack. It is Raymond who perceives the means of shelling the kernel. In his reconnoitring he observes a small wooden house built on props and clinging with its timbers to the stones of the walls. His men hew down the posts which support it, and as the building falls it reveals a gap in the wall, through which the besiegers enter. The town is seized, a pitiless slaughter follows, and the dead lie in heaps in the streets.

Strongbow and Eva are forthwith wedded. And now begins a period of fierce strife amidst the woods and bogs, where the Irish can strike shrewd blows at the invader and vanish into security by secret paths. When, emboldened by success, they leave the broken ground and meet the enemy on the plain, they are crushed and scattered by the whirlwind charge of the mailed horsemen. Slowly but surely the newcomers gain ground, and at length Dublin falls. Then Diarmid, “the traitor,” sinks into his grave. His work is done, and no longer will his hoarse voice urge on the enemies of his country. Strongbow is his heir, and he now calls himself King of Leinster.

By this time Henry is alarmed, for Strongbow bids fair ere long to be King of Ireland. He issues a proclamation forbidding Englishmen to engage in warfare in the distracted isle, and Strongbow soon perceives that Henry will brook no vassal of his building up a rival kingdom. Raymond the Fat is at once dispatched with a humble letter of homage; but Henry receives the messenger coldly, and disdains to reply.

Henry himself now prepares to invade Ireland. The month of October, in the year 1171, sees his great fleet of four hundred ships laden with soldiers set sail from Milford Haven. The fame of this fierce, bullet-headed king with the bloodshot eyes and the dark red hair has preceded him, and at his landing all Ireland hastens to do him homage. In a wicker-work hall with walls of peeled osiers, Henry holds his court in Dublin during one of the stormiest winters ever known. He feasts the Irish chieftains on dainty Norman dishes; he grants charters bestowing all the soil of Ireland on ten of his leading knights, and, leaving Strongbow out in the cold, invests Hugh de Lacy with cap and sword as the first governor of Dublin. When the April showers begin to fall, the royal Plantagenet embarks his host and returns to England.

But what of Strongbow? Conscious of the royal displeasure, he joins Henry in Normandy, and fights bravely against the king’s rebel sons. Then once more the sun of royalty deigns to smile on him, and at length he is rewarded with the long-coveted governorship of Dublin. In Ireland he discovers that Raymond the Fat is most popular with the soldiery, and is likely to prove a troublesome rival. A marriage is arranged between Strongbow’s sister and the popular knight, and Strongbow feels that he has staved off a disaster. The wedding festivities are rudely interrupted by news of native risings, and away goes Raymond to the congenial work of quelling the revolting chieftains. He gains success after success. The soldiers will have no other leader but him; and all the while Strongbow jealously intrigues against him. One day when Raymond is in the south he receives this message from his wife: “Be it known unto your sincere love that the great jaw-tooth which used to give me such uneasiness has fallen out. If you have any care or regard for me or yourself, return with all speed.”

The “great jaw-tooth” is none other than Strongbow, who has just died from the effects of an ulcer in his foot. So passes the man who ushers the English race into Ireland. He came to bring not peace but a sword, and with his advent began five long centuries of battle and murder, oppression, confiscation, rebellion, famine, crime, and misery unspeakable.