o the way of my fathers." Now that day was the
Lord's Day. Thereon, after the sacraments of the altar had been
offered, he saith to them that stood by, "In your supplications, commend
my going forth." And Briga speaketh and saith, "Father, what fearest
thou?" He saith, "I fear that I shall journey alone, that the way will
be dark--I fear the unknown country, the presence of the King, the
sentence of the Judge." After these things he commanded the brethren to
carry his body to the monastery of Clonfert secretly, lest, if they did
it openly, it should be kept by them among whom they should pass. Then
when he had kissed them all one by one, he saith unto holy Briga,
"Salute my friends on my behalf, and say unto them to beware of evil
speaking, even when it is true, how much the more when it is false."
When he had so spoken and foretold how some things would be in time to
come, he passed into everlasting rest, in the 96th year of his age.' He
died, May 16, 577.

By combining with all the collected and credible statements concerning
him illustrative matter from the history of his times and the
biographies of his contemporaries, it would no doubt be possible to
write a life of Brendan, which would be both of considerable bulk and of
considerable interest. But there would be nothing particularly startling
or striking about it. Apart from the interest of public events
contemporary with his long career, the monotonous variety produced by
his vagabond nature, and such psychical interest as might possibly
attach to stories of his mediumistic temperament, it would be rather
hum-drum. Brendan, however, has had the ill luck to be selected by some
unknown antient Irish novelist as the hero of a romance of the wildest
kind, which has certainly spread his name, if not his fame, in quarters
which in all his travels he could never have anticipated. Even in the
Canary Islands, the natives apply the term 'Isla de San Borondon' to a
peculiar effect like mirage, showing a shadowy presentiment of land,
which is sometimes seen off their coasts. His character as an hero of
romance, somewhat of the type of Sinbad the Sailor, if not of that of
Gulliver, has even injured him as a subject of serious study. There has
been a sort of custom, to which may be applied a celebrated phrase of
Newman, 'aged but not venerable,' of confounding the hero of the romance
with the real man. It would be just as proper to identify the hero of
the _Pickwick Papers_ wi