No More Learning

"
Tennyson took his version from Joyce's Early Celtic Romances. '
In this volume we have, among other legendary romances, five or
six of the most wonderful or moving tales in Celtic or any other
literature. Three of these are- -The Three Sorrowful Tales of Erin,'
comprising The Fate of the Children of Usna' (or 'Deirdrê'); (The
Fate of the Children of Lir'; and The Fate of the Children of
Tuirenn. ' The names of the three others are The Voyage of Mael-
dun' (the oldest copy of which is dated 1100), The Pursuit of
Dermot and Grania,' and 'Ossian in the Land of Youth. Of these
perhaps the story of 'Deirdrê' is the best known, and American
readers may be referred to the fine epical version by Dr. Robert D.


## p. 3408 (#382) ###########################################

3408
CELTIC LITERATURE
Joyce (Deirdrê'), published some years ago by Roberts Brothers
of Boston. Two brief examples of the short episodical narratives
which make up the marvelous 'Voyage of Maeldun' may be cited
here,- The Miller of Hell' and 'Signs of Home,' the latter giving
the return of the Celtic Ulysses and his companions.
THE MILLER OF HELL
HE next island they came to, which was not far off from the
had a large mill on it; and near the door stood the
miller, a huge-bodied, strong, burly man. They saw num-
berless crowds of men and horses laden with corn coming
towards the mill; and when their corn was ground they went
away towards the west. Great herds of all kinds of cattle cov-
ered the plain as far as the eye could reach, and among them
many wagons, laden with every kind of wealth that is produced
on the ridge of the world. All these the miller put into the
mouth of his mill to be ground; and all as they came forth went
westward.
Maeldun and his people now spoke to the miller, and asked
him the name of the mill, and the meaning of all they had seen
on the island. And he, turning quickly towards them, replied in
a few words: -
"This mill is called the Mill of Inver-tre-Kenand, and I am
the Miller of Hell. All the corn and all the riches of the world
that men are dissatisfied with, or which they complain of in any
way, are sent here to be ground; and also every precious article
and every kind of wealth which men try to conceal from God.
All these I grind in the Mill of Inver-tre-Kenand and send them
away afterwards to the west. "
He spoke no more, but turned round and busied himself
again with his mill. And the voyagers, with much wonder and
awe in their hearts, went to their curragh and sailed away.
SIGNS OF HOME
S⁰⁰
OON after they saw a beautiful verdant island, with herds of
oxen, cows, and sheep browsing all over its hills and val-
leys; but no houses nor inhabitants to be seen.
And they
rested some time on this island and ate the flesh of the cows
and sheep.


## p. 3409 (#383) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3409
One day while they were standing on a hill a large falcon
flew by; and two of the crew, who happened to look closely at
him, cried out in the hearing of Maeldun:-
"See that falcon! he is surely like the falcons of Erin! "
"Watch him closely," cried Maeldun, “and observe exactly in
what direction he is flying. "
And they saw that he flew to the southeast, without turning
or wavering.
They went on board at once; and having unmoored, they
sailed to the southeast after the falcon. After rowing the whole
day, they sighted land in the dusk of the evening, which seemed
to them like the land of Erin.
――
ence.
Of all the books of the kind published since Macpherson's 'Ossian,'
Lady Charlotte Guest's 'Mabinogion,' and Villemarqué's Barzaz-
Breiz,' this collection of Dr. Joyce's has had the most marked influ-
It consists of eleven tales, and was the first readable collection
of the old Gaelic prose romances published in English. So far as
the general public is concerned, Dr. Joyce's method is unquestion-
ably the best. "A translation," he says, "may either follow the very
words, or reproduce the life and spirit, of the original; but no trans-
lation can do both. If you render word for word, you lose the spirit;
if you wish to give the spirit and manner, you must depart from the
exact words and frame your own phrases. I have chosen this latter
course. My translation follows the original closely enough in nar-
rative and incident; but so far as mere phraseology is concerned, I
have used the English language freely, not allowing myself to be
trammeled by too close an adherence to the very words of the text.
The originals are in general simple in style; and I have done my
best to render them into simple, homely, plain English. In short,
I have tried to tell the stories as I conceive the old Shenachies them-
selves would have told them if they had used English instead of
Gaelic. »
Another characteristic and admirably edited translation of one of
these miscellaneous stories that lie outside the three cycles of Irish
romance is 'The Vision of Mac Cougleime,' which we owe to Dr.
Kuno Meyer (London: Nutt).
Among the legendary Celtic romances is the short but beautiful
and characteristic account of Ossian's expedition to the Isle of the
Blest or the Land of Youth, and his subsequent return as an old and
decrepit man-in a word, the Celtic Rip Van Winkle. This legend
not only underlies all the spiritual romances of Celtic Ireland and
Scotland, but has profoundly appealed to the imagination of the
VI-214


## p. 3410 (#384) ###########################################

3410
CELTIC LITERATURE
whole complex English race of to-day, whether under the badge of
the rose, the thistle, the shamrock, or the leek, whether under the
banner of the United Kingdom or that of the Stars and Stripes.
OISIN IN TIRNANOGE;
-
OR
THE LAST OF THE FENI
[According to an ancient legend, Finn's son Oisin, the hero poet, survived
to the time of St. Patrick, two hundred years (the legend makes it three hun-
dred) after the other Feni. On a certain occasion, when the saint asked him
how he had lived to such a great age, the old hero related his story, of
which the following is the close. ]
I
LIVED in the Land of Youth more than three hundred years;
but it appeared to me that only three years had passed
since the day I parted from my friends. At the end of that
time I began to have a longing desire to see my father Finn
and all my old companions, and I asked leave of Niam and of
the king to visit Erin. The king gave permission, and Niam
said:-
"I will give consent, though I feel sorrow in my heart, for
I fear much you will never return to me. "
I replied that I would surely return, and that she need not
feel any doubt or dread, for that the white steed knew the way,
and would bring me back in safety. Then she addressed me in
these words, which seemed very strange to me:
"I will not refuse this request, though your journey afflicts.
me with great grief and fear. Erin is not now as it was when
you left it.
The great king Finn and his Feni are all gone;
and you will find, instead of them, a holy father and hosts of
priests and saints. Now, think well on what I say to you, and
keep my words in your mind. If once you alight from the
back to me. Again I warn
white steed, you will never come
you, if you place your feet on the green sod in Erin, you will
never return to this lovely land. A third time, O Oisin, my
beloved husband, a third time I say to you, if you alight from
the white steed you will never see me again. ”
I promised that I would faithfully attend to her words, and
that I would not alight from the white steed. Then as I looked
into her gentle face and marked her grief, my heart was


## p. 3411 (#385) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3411
――――――
weighed down with sadness, and my tears flowed plentifully;
but even so, my mind was bent on coming back to Erin.
When I had mounted the white steed, he galloped straight
toward the shore. We moved as swiftly as before over the clear
sea. The wind overtook the waves and we overtook the wind,
so that we straightway left the Land of Youth behind; and we
passed by many islands and cities till at length we landed on
the green shores of Erin.
As I traveled on through the country, I looked closely around
me; but I scarcely knew the old places, for everything seemed
strangely altered. I saw no sign of Finn and his host, and I
began to dread that Niam's saying was coming true. At length
I espied at a distance a company of little men and women,* all
mounted on horses as small as themselves; and when I came
near, they greeted me kindly and courteously. They looked at
me with wonder and curiosity, and they marveled much at my
great size and at the beauty and majesty of my person.
I asked them about Finn and the Feni; whether they were
still living, or if any sudden disaster had swept them away.
And one replied:-
"We have heard of the hero Finn, who ruled the Feni of
Erin in times of old, and who never had an equal for bravery
and wisdom. The poets of the Gaels have written many books
concerning his deeds and the deeds of the Feni, which we can-
not now relate; but they are all gone long since, for they lived
many ages ago. We have heard also, and we have seen it
written in very old books, that Finn had a son named Oisin.
Now this Oisin went with a young fairy maiden to Tirnanoge,
and his father and his friends sorrowed greatly after him and
sought him long; but he was never seen again. "
When I heard all this I was filled with amazement, and my
heart grew heavy with great sorrow. I silently turned my steed
away from the wondering people, and set forward straightway
for Allen of the mighty deeds, on the broad green plains of
Leinster. It was a miserable journey to me; and though my
mind, being full of sadness at all I saw and heard, forecasted
further sorrows, I was grieved more than ever when I reached
Allen. For there indeed I found the hill deserted and lonely,
and my father's palace all in ruins and overgrown with grass
and weeds.
The gigantic race of the Feni had all passed away, and Erin was now
inhabited by people who looked very small in Oisin's eyes.


## p. 3412 (#386) ###########################################

3412
CELTIC LITERATURE
I turned slowly away, and afterwards fared through the land
in every direction in search of my friends. But I met only
crowds of little people, all strangers, who gazed on me with
wonder; and none knew me. I visited every place throughout
the country where I knew the Feni had lived; but I found their
houses all like Allen, solitary and in ruins.
At length I came to Glenasmole,* where many a time I had
hunted in days of old with the Feni, and there I saw a crowd
of people in the glen. As soon as they saw me, one of them
came forward and said:
-
"Come to us, thou mighty hero, and help us out of our strait;
for thou art a man of vast strength. "
I went to them, and found a number of men trying in vain
to raise a large flat stone. It was half lifted from the ground;
but those who were under it were not strong enough either to
raise it further or to free themselves from its weight. And they
were in great distress, and on the point of being crushed to
death.
I thought it a shameful thing that so many men should be
unable to lift this stone, which Oscar, if he were alive, would
take in his right hand and fling over the heads of the feeble
crowd. After I had looked a little while, I stooped forward and
seized the flag with one hand; and putting forth my strength, I
flung it seven perches from its place, and relieved the little men.
But with the great strain the golden saddle-girth broke, and
bounding forward to keep myself from falling, I suddenly came
to the ground on my two feet.
The moment the white steed felt himself free, he shook him-
self and neighed. Then, starting off with the speed of a cloud-
shadow on a March day, he left me standing helpless and sor-
rowful. Instantly a woeful change came over me: the sight of
my eyes began to fade, the ruddy beauty of my face fled, I lost
all my strength, and I fell to the earth, a poor withered old
man, blind and wrinkled and feeble.
The white steed was never seen again. I never recovered
my sight, my youth, or my strength; and I have lived in this
manner, sorrowing without ceasing for my gentle golden-haired
wife Niam, and thinking ever of my father Finn, and of the
lost companions of my youth.
* Glenasmole, a fine valley about seven miles south of Dublin, through
which the river Dodder flows.


## p. 3413 (#387) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3413
Between these romances and the first definite Christian writings
the numerous Ossianic colloquies and narrative poems, and the Irish
Annals, form the connecting links. The Ossianic poetry, even where
it is specially Irish in character, we have elected to leave aside for
the present, for reasons already given; but it must be remembered
that they form a very important section in themselves, and amount
in Irish alone to some fifty thousand lines, even on a fairly moderate
computation.
Turning to the Annals, we are confronted at once by that extraor
dinary repository of Irish lore, history, and legend known as 'The
Annals of the Four Masters. ' This remarkable testament of the
Irish genius was due primarily to the zeal and energy of Michael
O'Clery, born at Donegal about 1580-the last of a long line of
scholars. Having become a Franciscan, in his conventual calling
he was living far away from his native soil, at St. Anthony's monas-
tery in Louvain. But there he had another Donegal man, Edh the
son of Bháird (Ward), for fellow worker; and the two together
formed the idea of collecting and putting into permanent form the
valuable MS. flotsam of old Irish literature which in earlier days,
wandering in their own land, they had found drifting insecurely
hither and thither. The plan they proposed was for O'Clery to get
leave of absence and return to Ireland, there to roam up and down
the land, collecting and copying every valuable MS. he could lay
hands on; then transmitting the copy to his co-worker in Louvain.
Ædh son of Ward died too soon to carry out fully his part of the
undertaking: but another Irish Franciscan, Father Colgan, took up
the task; and it was he who gave the book its present title, The
Annals of the Four Masters,' calling it after the four men who chiefly
collaborated in the work, viz. , Michael O'Clery, Farfassa O'Mulconry,
Peregrine O'Clery, and Peregrine O'Duigenan. The Annals, thus
laboriously brought to a triumphant close, carry history back to the
Deluge, and down to the years contemporary with their compilers
and authors, and the early part of the seventeenth century. "There
is no event of Irish history," says Dr. Hyde, "from the birth of Christ
to the beginning of the seventeenth century, that the first inquiry of
the student will not be-What do the Four Masters say about it ? >
The Annals indeed present in their curiously epitomized and synchro-
nized pages the concentrated essence of thousands of the confused
MSS. which the Four Masters collated, sifted, and interpreted with
consummate art and intelligence. They wrote, we may add, in an
archaic, almost cryptic style, full of bardic euphemisms and other
difficulties; so that it is fortunate even for Celtic scholars that
O'Donovan's seven great volumes, in his quarto edition, present the
text with an accompanying English translation.


## p. 3414 (#388) ###########################################

3414
CELTIC LITERATURE
The more one compares the great work of the Four Masters with
other succeeding works of the same historical order, the more one
sees how great was the effect upon Irish literature of the growth of
Christian influence. St. Patrick's are the world-wide name and fame
which most clearly mark the early Christian history of Ireland, when
the new divine creed entered into the land and confronted the Celtic
paganism. Many are the exquisite legends of St. Patrick, often so
naïvely and so tenderly told; with glimmerings here and there
already of the humor which we connect so much with the Irish
temper of mind, and which received probably its greatest stimulus
when an Irishman of earlier times wished, in all courtesy, to rec-
oncile his old fighting instincts with the Christian gentleness and
self-sacrifice. This as it may be, the hagiology of the mediæval
Irishman is in delightful contrast to the tales of battle and foray in
the three great cycles of early romance. As for St. Patrick, the
legendary and apocryphal literature that centres about him amounts
in verse and prose to an immense bulk. Much of this matter has of
course very small historical value; but it may be conceded that
Patrick's traditional rôle as a law-maker and reviser, in connection
with the revision of the Brehon Law, deserves serious attention.
Similarly, though we do not accept more than a small part of
the poems attributed to him as really his, there is enough to show
him a poet, as well as a great teacher and preacher and lawgiver.
What is most to the purpose, perhaps, is that he made his life a
poem; so that the mediæval scribes can hardly speak of him without
adorning and beautifying the tale they have to tell. Less known but
hardly less interesting is St. Columcill, whom Dr. Hyde claims "to
have been, both in his failings and his virtues, the most typical of
Irishmen; at once sentimental and impulsive, an eminent type of the
race he came from. " Dr. Hyde goes on to relate, in illustration of
this, the tale of the heron in Iona:-
:- When he saw the bird flying
across the water from the direction of Ireland, and alighting half
frozen with cold and faint with flight upon the rocky coast there, he
sent out one of his monks to go round the island and warm and
cherish and feed the bird; 'because,' said he weeping, 'it has come
from the land I shall never see on earth again! " Surely one of
the most touching sentences ever uttered in all the long series of
the lament of the Celt in exile!
The Lives of the Saints form altogether a most important and
characteristic section of Irish literature. Even when composed in
Latin, they remain so saturated with Celtic feeling and coloring that
they may fairly be counted among Irish books. Dr. Hyde names
several Latin lives of St. Patrick alone, ascribed to St. Benignus, St.
Ultan, St. Eleran, and others of his later followers. Of St. Columcill


## p. 3415 (#389) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3415
(St. Columba), one of the fullest, written in Irish in the sixteenth
century, was compiled at Lifford under the direction of Manus
O'Donnell, Prince of Tirconnell; though Adamnan's Latin life of the
Saint is the most important book on the subject, written as it was
only a hundred years after the death of Columba, and by one who
was his spiritual successor as Abbot of Iona.
The Danish invasion of Ireland, lasting from the ninth to the
eleventh centuries, draws a red line across the history of its litera-
ture. During that troubled period many of the most priceless of its
MSS. were destroyed, and violent disruptions threatened every phase
of learning. However, the old impulse of the sixth century still
lived; and we find in the tenth, Cormac, Bishop of Cashel, first
among a redoubtable band of men of letters and men of affairs who
strove successfully to maintain the Irish spirit. Cormac's 'Glossary'
is the oldest book of its kind, and invaluable as a monument; and
the reputed poems of Gorm'ly, his betrothed bride, whom he never
married, and whose tale is a sad and strange one, form in their
different ways an extremely characteristic expression of the Irish
literature of the time.
During the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the older Irish romances
multiplied themselves and begat new ones in the most astonishing
way. The Book of Leinster' mentions one hundred and eighty-one
tales, duly classified: Love-tales, Battle-tales, Tales of Travel, Forays,
Feasts, Visions, Tragedies, etc. What we have called the doctors
of literature devoted themselves henceforth more to prose than to
poetry, and poetry fell more and more into the hands of those who
wrote not for the elect but for the people.
There was no new development of Irish poetry, such as there was
of Welsh poetry in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The
bardic schools, which did so much for Irish poetry from the sixth
century to the seventeenth, insisted upon its conventions to a degree
that was excessive. Geoffrey Keating, who carried on his great work
at the same time as the Four Masters, in the first half of the seven-
teenth century, and who was a poet as well as a historian, still
used the bardic prosody, and wrote some delightful poems by its
rules; but he lent his influence to aid the new liberty in prose and
verse that Irish literature was learning. Keating's name is of first-
rate importance in its record, for this very reason. He was the first
really to conceive of Irish literature as a literature for the people,
and not only for the elect. He was the first to do this; and partly
because he did it, he was the last great landmark in the larger
Gaelic literature of Ireland. His History of Ireland,' the result
of an enforced retirement from preaching, was, says Dr. Hyde,
"the most popular book ever written in Irish. ” He marks too the


## p. 3416 (#390) ###########################################

3416
CELTIC LITERATURE
transition, as we pointed out, from the old bardic tradition in Irish
poetry. After his coming the bards threw away their superfluous
prosody and wrote for the people, and became poets indeed, instead
of the most ingenious of schoolmen. The result was the remarkable
body of Irish poetry which belongs to the last three centuries, and
which contains many of the characteristics of folk-song and culture
poetry, in a most tuneful and idiosyncratic fashion quite its own.
Let us listen again to Dr. Hyde on this point:-
"What the popular ballads of the folk had been like prior to the seven-
teenth century we have no means of knowing. No scribe would demean his
learned pen by committing them to paper; but from that date down to the
beginning of the present century the bards the great houses being fallen —
turned instinctively to the general public, and threw behind them the metres
that required so many years of study in the schools, and dropped at a stroke
several thousand words which no one understood except the great chiefs or
those trained by the poets, while they broke out into beautiful but at the
same time intelligible verse, which no one who has once heard and learned is
likely to forget. This is to my mind the real glory of the modern Irish
nation; this is the sweetest creation of Gaelic literature; this is the truest note
of the enchanting Irish siren, and he who has once heard it and remains
deaf to its charm has neither heart for song nor soul for music. The Gaelic
poetry of the last two centuries is the most sensuous attempt to convey music
in words ever made by man. It is absolutely impossible to convey the
lusciousness of sound, richness of rhythm, and perfection of harmony in
another language. "
Discounting what we will in the natural enthusiasm of one who
has devoted himself heart and soul to the cause of the Gaelic
tongue and of Irish literature, quite enough remains to carry the
contention for the continuing interest of native Irish poetry after so
many centuries. That such a poetry and such a language should
suddenly decay after so noble and enriched a record in the past, is
nothing short of a tragedy in the history of tongues.
Dr. Hyde's own collection of the 'Love Songs of Connacht' is the
best example that American readers could possibly have of this
Irish poetry, the late flowering of so venerable and noble a tree.
And with this work, and some of the collections of the folk-tales
still current in Erse-speaking Ireland, made by Dr. Hyde, Mr. Jere-
miah Curtin, and Mr. Larminie, and Englished for us, we must bring
this brief outline of the Irish contribution to Celtic literature to a
close. Its modern interpretation is only now beginning to take its
due place, let us remember, both at the hands of its scholars and on
the lips of its poets. And if any reader should think the scholars
still, after all we have said, too difficult to follow, let us recommend
them to turn to the poems and tales of Mr. W. B. Yeats and to the


## p. 3417 (#391) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3417
romantic pages of Mr. Standish O'Grady, the latest exponents in our
more modern tongue of that imagination, and that subtlety and
energy of thought, which are characteristically Irish.
Of the three great cycles of Gaelic literature, the third is the (so-
called) Ossianic. Of this cycle Finn (Fionn, Fingal) is the central
hero. The second great cycle is that which treats of the heroes of
the Ultonians, i. e. , the Red Branch of Ulster; among this cycle
Cuculain (Cuchullin, Cohoolin, Coolin) is the supreme type. No liv
ing writer has so well reconstructed the past for us as Mr. Standish
O'Grady has done, and nowhere is he so successful as in his vivid
and beautiful historical romance, of which Cuculain is the hero. Of
the famous "battle-prop of the valor and torch of the chivalry of the
Ultonians » Mr. O'Grady has given us an account which deserves to
pass into the fixed literature of our race. Apart from its vividness,
charm, and power, The Coming of Cuculain' affords a general idea
of the first great heroic cycle (its predecessor dealing entirely
with mythical or mythopoeic beings), and of primitive heroic life as
reflected in that literature. The excerpts selected are (1) the opening
of the romance, and (2) from the chapter telling how Cuculain won
his knighthood.
FROM THE COMING OF CUCULAIN>
I
TH
HE Red Branch feasted one night in their great hall at
Emain Macha. So vast was the hall that a man such as
men are now, standing in the centre and shouting his
loudest, would not be heard at the circumference; yet the low
laughter of the King sitting at one end was clearly audible to
those who sat around the Champion at the other.
The sons of
Dithorba made it, giants of the elder time, laboring there under
the shoutings of Macha and the roar of her sounding thongs.
Its length was a mile and nine furlongs and a cubit. With her
brooch-pin she plowed its outline upon the plain, and its
breadth was not much less. Trees such as earth nourished then
upheld the mossy roof beneath which feasted that heroic brood,
the great-hearted children of Rury, huge offsprings of the gods
and giants of the dawn of time. For mighty exceedingly were.
these men. At the noise of their running to battle all Ireland
shook, and the illimitable Lir trembled in his watery halls; the
roar of their brazen chariots reverberated from the solid canopy
of heaven, and their war-steeds drank rivers dry.


## p. 3418 (#392) ###########################################

3418
CELTIC LITERATURE
A vast murmur rose from the assembly, for like distant
thunder or the far-off murmuring of agitated waters was the con-
tinuous hum of their blended conversation and laughter, while
ever and anon, cleaving the many-tongued confusion, uprose
friendly voices, clearer and stronger than battle trumpets, when
one hero challenged another to drink, wishing him victory and
success, and his words rang round the hollow dome. Innumer-
able candles, tall as spears, illuminated the scene. The eyes of
the heroes sparkled, and their faces, white and ruddy, beamed
with festal mirth and mutual affection. Their yellow hair shone.
Their banqueting attire, white and scarlet, glowed against the
outer gloom. Their round brooches and mantle-pins of gold or
silver or golden bronze, their drinking vessels and instruments
of festivity, flashed and glittered in the light. They rejoiced in
their glory and their might and in the inviolable amity in
which they were knit together; a host of comrades, a knot of
heroic valor and affection, which no strength or cunning, and
no power seen or unseen, could ever release or untie.
At one extremity of the vast hall, upon a raised seat, sat
their young king, Concobar Mac Nessa, slender, handsome, and
upright. A canopy of bronze, round as the bent sling of the
Sun-god, the long-handed, far-shooting son of Ethlend, encircled
his head. At his right hand lay a staff of silver. Far away at
the other end of the hall, on a raised seat, sat the Champion,
Fergus Mac Roy, like a colossus. The stars and clouds of night
were round his head and shoulders, seen through the wide and
high entrance of the Dûn, whose doors no man has ever seen
closed and barred. Aloft, suspended from the dim rafters, hung
the naked forms of great men clear against the dark dome,
having the cords of their slaughter around their necks and their
white limbs splashed with blood. Kings were they, who had
murmured against the sovereignty of the Red Branch. Through
the wide doorway out of the night flew a huge bird, black and
gray, unseen; and soaring upwards sat upon the rafters, its eyes
like burning fire. It was the Mór Reega, or Great Queen, the
far-striding, terrible daughter of Iarnmas (Iron-Death). Her
voice was like the shouting of ten thousand men. Dear to her
were these heroes. More she rejoiced in them feasting than in
the battle prowess of the rest.
When supper was ended, their bard, in his singing-robes and
girt around the temples with a golden fillet, stood up and sang.


## p. 3419 (#393) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3419
He sang how once a king of the Ultonians, having plunged into
the sea-depths, there slew a monster which had wrought much
havoc amongst fishers and seafaring men. The heroes attended
to his song, leaning forward with bright eyes. They applauded
the song and the singer, and praised the valor of the heroic
man who had done the deed. Then the Champion struck the
table with his clenched hands and addressed the assembly.
Wrath and sorrow were in his voice. It resembled the brool
of lions, heard afar by seafaring men upon some savage shore
on a still night.
"Famous deeds," he said, "are not wrought now among the
Red Branch. I think we are all become women. I grow weary
of these huntings in the morning and mimic exercises of war,
and this training of steeds and careering of brazen chariots
stained never with aught but dust and mire, and these unearned
feastings at night and vain applause of the brave deeds of our
forefathers. Come now, let us make an end of this.
Let us
conquer Banba (Ireland) wholly in all her green borders, and let
the realms of Lir, which sustain no foot of man, be the limit of
her sovereignty. Let us gather the tributes of all Ireland, after
many battles and much warlike toil. Then more sweetly shall
we drink, while the bards chant our prowess. Once I knew a
coward who boasted endlessly about his forefathers, and at last
my anger rose, and with a flat hand I slew him in the middle
of his speech, and paid no eric, for he was nothing. We have
the blood of heroes in our veins, and we sit here nightly boast-
ing about them: about Rury, whose name we bear; and Macha
the warrioress, who brought hither bound the sons of Dithorba
and made them rear this mighty Dûn; and Kimbaoth son of
Fiontann; and my namesake Fergus, whose crooked mouth was
no dishonor, and the rest of our hero sires; and we consume the
rents and tributes of Ulster which they by their prowess con-
quered to us, and which flow hither in abundance from every
corner of the province. Valiant men too will one day come
hither and slay us as I slew that boaster, and here in Emain
Macha their bards will praise them. Then in the halls of our
dead shall we say to our sires, 'All that you got for us by your
blood and your sweat, that we have lost, and the glory of the
Red Branch is at an end. '»
That speech was pleasing to the Red
out that Fergus Mac Roy had spoken well.
Branch, and they cried
Then all at once, on


## p. 3420 (#394) ###########################################

3420
CELTIC LITERATURE
a sudden impulse, they sang the battle song of the Ultonians,
and shouted for the war so that the building quaked and rocked,
and in the hall of the weapons there was a clangor of falling
shields, and men died that night for extreme dread, so mightily
shouted the Ultonians around their king and around Fergus.
II
On the morrow there was a great hasting of the Red Branch
on the plain of the assemblies. It was May-day morning and
the sun shone brightly, but at first through radiant showers.
The trees were putting forth young buds; the wet grass sparkled.
All the martial pomp and glory of the Ultonians were exhibited
that day. Their chariots and war-horses ringed the plain. All
the horses' heads were turned towards the centre where were
Concobar Mac Nessa and the chiefs of the Red Branch. The
plain flashed with gold, bronze, and steel, and glowed with the
bright mantles of the innumerable heroes, crimson and scarlet,
blue, green, or purple. The huge brooches on their breasts, of
gold and silver or gold-like bronze, were like resplendent wheels.
Their long hair, yellow for the most part, was bound with orna-
ments of gold. Great truly were those men; their like has not
come since upon the earth. They were the heroes and demigods
of the heroic age of Erin, champions who feared naught beneath
the sun; mightiest among the mighty, huge, proud, and uncon-
querable, and loyal and affectionate beyond all others; all of the
blood of Ir, son of Milesius, the Clanna Rury of great renown,
rejoicing in their valor, their splendor, their peerless king.
Concobar had no crown. A plain circle of beaten gold girt his
broad temples. In the naked glory of his regal manhood he
stood there before them all, but even so a stranger would have
swiftly discovered the captain of the Red Branch; such was his
stature, his bearing, such his slow-turning, steady-gazing eyes
and the majesty of his bearded countenance. His countenance
was long, broad above and narrow below, his nose eminent, his
beard bipartite, curling and auburn in hue, his form without any
blemish or imperfection.
"Let the tameless horses of Macha be harnessed to the
chariot," cried Concobar, "and let Læg, son of the King of
Gabra, drive them hither, for those are the horses and that the
chariot which shall be given this day to Cuculain. "


## p. 3421 (#395) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3421
Then, son of Sualtam, how in thy guileless breast thy heart
leaped when thou heardest the thundering of the great war-car
and the wild neighing of the immortal steeds, as they broke
from the dark stable into the clear-shining light of day, and
heard behind them the ancient roaring of the brazen wheels, as
in the days when they bore forth Macha and her martial groom
against the giants of old, and mightily established in Eiria the
Red Branch of the Ultonians! Soon they rushed to view from
the rear of Emain, speeding forth impetuously out of the hollow-
sounding ways of the city and the echoing palaces into the
open, and behind them in the great car green and gold, above
the many-twinkling wheels, the charioteer, with floating mantle,
girt round the temples with the gold fillet of his office, leaning
backwards and sideways as he labored to restrain their fury
unrestrainable: a gray long-maned steed, whale-bellied, broad-
chested, with mane like flying foam, under one silver yoke, and
a black lustrous tufty-maned steed under the other; such steeds.
as in power, size, and beauty the earth never produced before
and never will produce again.
Like a hawk swooping along the face of a cliff when the
wind is high; or like the rush of March wind over the smooth
plain; or like the fleetness of the stag roused from his lair by
the hounds and covering his first field, was the rush of those
steeds when they had broken through the restraint of the chari-
oteer, as though they galloped over fiery flags; so that the earth
shook and trembled with the velocity of their motion, and all
the time the great car brayed and shrieked as the wheels of
solid and glittering bronze went round, and strange cries and
exclamations were heard, for they were demons that had their
abode in that car.
The charioteer restrained the steeds before the assembly, but
nay-the-less a deep purr like the purr of a tiger proceeded
from the axle. Then the whole assembly lifted up their voices
and shouted for Cuculain, and he himself, Cuculain the son of
Sualtam, sprang into his chariot all armed, with a cry as of a
warrior springing into his chariot in the battle, and he stood
erect and brandished his spears, and the war sprites of the Gael
shouted along with him; for the Bocanahs and Bananahs and the
Geniti Gluidi, the wild people of the glens, and the demons of
the air, roared around him, when first the great warrior of the
Gael, his battle-arms in his hands, stood equipped for war in his


## p. 3422 (#396) ###########################################

3422
CELTIC LITERATURE
chariot before all the warriors of his tribe, the kings of the
Clanna Rury and the people of the Emain Macha. Then too
there sounded from the Tec Brac the boom of shields and the
clashing of swords and the cries and shouting of the Tuatha Dée
Danann, who dwelt there perpetually; and Lu the long-handed,
the slayer of Balor, the destroyer of the Fornoroh, the immortal,
the invisible, the maker and the decorator of the firmament, whose
hound was the sun, and whose son the viewless wind, thundered
from heaven and bent his sling five-hued against the clouds;
and the son of the illimitable Lir in his mantle blue and green,
foam-fringed, passed through the assembly with a roar of far-off
innumerable waters, and the Mór Reega stood in the midst with
a foot on either side of the plain, and shouted with the shout of
a host, so that the Ultonians fell down like reaped grass with
their faces to the earth, on account of the presence of the Mór
Reega and on account of the omens and great signs.
The following poems from the ancient Erse are taken from the
'Lyra Celtica: an Anthology of Representative Celtic Poetry,' edited
by Elizabeth A. Sharp.
THE MYSTERY OF AMERGIN
AM the wind which breathes upon the sea,
I
I am the wave of the ocean,
I am the murmur of the billows,
I am the ox of the seven combats,
I am the vulture upon the rocks,
I am a beam of the sun,
I am the fairest of plants,
I am a wild boar in valor,
I am a salmon in the water,
I am a lake in the plain,
I am a word of science,
I am the point of the lance of battle,
I am the God who creates in the head [i. e. , of
man] the fire [i. e. , the thought].
Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain
[if not I]?
Who announces the ages of the moon [if not I]?
Who teaches the place where couches the sun [if not I]?


## p. 3423 (#397) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3423
THE SONG OF FIONN
AY-DAY, delightful time! How beautiful the color!
M
The blackbirds sing their full lay. Would that Læg were
here!
The cuckoos sing in constant strains. How welcome is the noble
Brilliance of the seasons ever! On the margin of the branching
woods
The summer swallows skim the stream: the swift horses seek the
pool;
The heather spreads out her long hair; the weak fair bow-down
grows.
Sudden consternation attacks the signs; the planets, in their courses
running, exert an influence:
The sea is lulled to rest, flowers cover the earth.
VISION OF A FAIR WOMAN
TEL
ELL us some of the charms of the stars:
Close and well set were her ivory teeth;
White as the canna upon the moor
Was her bosom the tartan bright beneath.
Her well-rounded forehead shone
Soft and fair as the mountain snow;
Her two breasts were heaving full;
To them did the hearts of heroes flow.
Her lips were ruddier than the rose;
Tender and tunefully sweet her tongue;
White as the foam adown her side
Her delicate fingers extended hung.
Smooth as the dusky down of the elk
Appeared her shady eyebrows to me;
Lovely her cheeks were, like berries red;
From every guile she was wholly free.
Her countenance looked like the gentle buds
Unfolding their beauty in early spring;
Her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills;
And her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring.


## p. 3424 (#398) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3424
In contemporary Celtic poetry no one surpasses Mr. W. B. Yeats,
particularly in the re-creation of that wonderful past with whose
atmosphere his whole work is charged. As an example of Mr. Yeats's
narrative method with legendary themes we may quote some lines
from his beautiful 'The Wanderings of Oisin' (Ossian):—
F
LED foam underneath us, and round us a wandering and milky
smoke,
High as the saddle-girth, covering away from our glances the tide;
And those that fled, and that followed, from the foam-pale distance
broke;
The immortal desire of immortals we saw in their faces, and sighed.
I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran, Sgeolan, Lomair,
And never a song sang Neave, and over my finger-tips
Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist-cold hair,
And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of lips.
Were we days long or hours long in riding, when, rolled in a grisly
peace,
An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak?
And we stood on a sea's edge we saw not; for whiter than new-
washed fleece
Fled foam underneath us, and round us a wandering and milky smoke.
And we rode on the plains of the sea's edge-the sea's edge barren
and gray,
Gray sands on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees,
Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away
Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas.
But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their wrinkling bark;
Dropping-a murmurous dropping-old silence and that one sound;
For no live creatures lived there, no weasels moved in the dark-
Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the ground.
And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow night;
For as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the world
and the sun,
Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak leaf, the light,
And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the world
was one.


## p. 3425 (#399) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3425
Finally, here is one of Mr. Yeats's "old songs re-sung":
THE MADNESS OF KING GOLL
SAT on cushioned otter skin:
I
My word was law from Ith to Emen,
And shook at Invar Amargin
The hearts of the world-troubling seamen,
And drove tumult and war away
From girl and boy and man and beast;
The fields grew fatter day by day,
The wild fowl of the air increased;
And every ancient Ollave said,
While he bent down his faded head,-
"He drives away the Northern cold. "
They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech-leaves old.
I sat and mused and drank sweet wine;
A herdsman came from inland valleys,
Crying, the pirates drove his swine.
To fill their dark-beaked hollow galleys.
I called my battle-breaking men
And my loud brazen battle-cars
From rolling vale and rivery glen,
And under the blinking of the stars
Fell on the pirates of the deep,
And hurled them in the gulph of sleep:
These hands won many a torque of gold.
They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech-leaves old.
But slowly, as I shouting slew
And trampled in the bubbling mire,
In my most secret spirit grew
A whirling and a wandering fire:
I stood: keen stars above me shone,
Around me shone keen eyes of men:
And with loud singing I rushed on
Over the heath and spungy fen,
And broke between my hands the staff
Of my long spear with song and laugh,
That down the echoing valleys rolled.
They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech-leaves old.
And now I wander in the woods
When summer gluts the golden bees,
VI-215


## p. 3426 (#400) ###########################################

3426
CELTIC LITERATURE
Or in autumnal solitudes
Arise the leopard-colored trees;
Or when along the wintry strands
The cormorants shiver on their rocks;
I wander on, and wave my hands,
And sing, and shake my heavy locks.
The gray wolf knows me; by one ear
I lead along the woodland deer;
The hares run by me, growing bold.
They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech-leaves old.
I came upon a little town
That slumbered in the harvest moon,
And passed a-tiptoe up and down,
Murmuring to a fitful tune,
How I have followed, night and day,
A tramping of tremendous feet,
And saw where this old tympan lay,
Deserted on a doorway seat,
And bore it to the woods with me;
Of some unhuman misery
Our married voices wildly trolled.
They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech-leaves old.
I sang how, when day's toil is done,
Orchil shakes out her long dark hair
That hides away the dying sun
And sheds faint odors through the air:
When my hand passed from wire to wire
It quenched, with sound like falling dew,
The whirling and the wandering fire,
But left a mournful ulalu;
For the kind wires are torn and still,
And I must wander wood and hill,
Through summer's heat and winter's cold.
They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech-leaves old.


## p. 3427 (#401) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3427
II-SCOTTISH
EARLY Celtic literature in Scotland is so intimately allied with the
Irish, that much of the previous section must be held to belong as
much to the present one. We shall not need to recapitulate here
what is there dealt with. The two Gaelic currents began to sepa-
rate, if almost imperceptibly, even then; and only in century-long
stages, after passing the point marked by the medieval recapitu-
lators of Ossian and St. Patrick. How closely intermingled these
currents were up to that point may be learnt from the evidence of
such exquisite lines as those preserved by the Scottish Dean Mac-
gregor, entitled 'Ossian Sang':-
:-
SWEET is the voice in the land of gold,
And sweeter the music of birds that soar,
When the cry of the heron is heard on the wold,
And the waves break softly on Bundatrore.
Down floats on the murmuring of the breeze
The call of the cuckoo from Cossahun,
The blackbird is warbling among the trees;
And soft is the kiss of the warming sun.
The cry of the eagle of Assaroe
O'er the court of Mac Morne to me is sweet,
And sweet is the cry of the bird below
Where the wave and the wind and the tall cliff meet.
Finn Mac Cool is the father of me,
Whom seven battalions of Fenians fear.
When he launches his hounds on the open lea,
Grand is their cry as they rouse the deer.
The last verse is eloquent as to the common traditions of the
Scots and Irish Gael. Ossian is dealt with separately under his own
proper heading, however, and we need not discuss here his interest,
literary and historical.
Turning to St. Patrick, let us accept provisionally the account
that makes him of Gaelo-Brythonic race, born about 387 A. D. at Kil-
patrick on the Clyde, -Strathclyde being an old famous region of the
northern Brythonic stock. The remains, in prose and verse, of the
early Scottish literature dealing with St. Patrick are of course not so
numerous as the Irish; but as the two were freely interchangeable*
*«The early literature of the Scottish Gael," says the Rev. Nigel MacNeill
in his interesting work (The Literature of the Highlanders, "cannot be well
understood apart from early Irish literature. The ballads of the two countries
describe the same struggles, the characters engaging in the strife are the
same and bear the same names. »


## p. 3428 (#402) ###########################################

3428
CELTIC LITERATURE
in the early period when his record was being written down, it fol-
lows that where Irish memoranda of his true and his legendary his-
tory, his hymns, and so forth, existed, the Scottish chroniclers and
bards would accept them without feeling the need of making a sep-
arate record. Nor must we forget, in speaking of St. Patrick, that
the pre-Christian romantic mythology, with its Firbolgs and ancient
heroic gods, giants, and men, is just as much to be limned into the
background of the picture in the case of early Scottish as in that of
Irish Gaelic tradition and its earliest scriptive forms.
Curiously enough, if Scotland gave Ireland the saint that in course
of time became almost its national symbol,- Patrick,-Ireland in turn
gave Scotland its dearest saint,-Columba. He was born in 521, near
Temple Douglas (Tulach-Dubh-glaise); in 545 founded a church in
Derry; later, the famous church at Kells; and in 563, after some
jealousy had been at work against him, he left for Ireland, and after
pausing at Colonsay, he went on to Ia, now known the world over as
Iona. Iona has become now the locus classici of the Gaelic, not to
say the whole Scottish race. Recently, a writer of profound imagina-
tion, Miss Fiona Macleod, has dated from its lonely shores the ded-
ication of that impressive book 'The Sin-Eater, and Other. Tales,'
showing how it still keeps for those of the true faith its old effect:-
"I mo cridhe, i mo ghraidh,»
(Isle of my heart, isle of my love,)
as Columba is said to have called it. His followers, the little sacred
circle of twelve, the Family of Iona,' had to be militant with a
vengeance: Milesian-or soldiering-as well as cleric, in their work;
and the old traditions are full of references to their fight against the
Féinne and the house of Ossian. But having so far prevailed as
they did, they became in turn the chroniclers of the very things they
had fought against. So in a sense, and a very real one, Iona is the
first centre of the literature of the Scots Gaels to which we can
point.
The total effect of Columba, or Columcill, upon Gaelic life
and literature, Irish and Scots, was immense indeed; to gather whose
force one must read in the Book of Deer' and the old Irish MSS.
on the one hand, and the Latin hymnology of the Celtic church on
the other.
But in speaking of Columba let us not forget the tender and
beautiful figure of St. Bridget,- another of that mysterious train,
including Merlin and St. Patrick, which has associations with Strath-
clyde -
"Bonnie sweet St. Bride of the
Yellow, yellow hair! »
St. Bridget, the St. Mary of the Gael, whose story has been retold
by Miss Fiona Macleod in 'The Washer of the Ford,' may first be


## p. 3429 (#403) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3429
found depicted by the side of Patrick and Columba in the famous
antique relic, the 'Domhnach Airgid,' dating back to the sixth or
seventh century. She appears constantly in Gaelic hagiology, and
with poetic as well as saintly fame casting a halo about her yellow
hair. O'Curry's 'MS. Materials,' and other collections make it pos-
sible, luckily, for other than purely Gaelic students to read of her
as she appeared in early time. She is a peculiarly interesting figure,
because in the Celtic races women have always counted peculiarly:
and there are signs that they will count even more in time to
come. St. Bridget (Brigit, Bride, Breed), then, is the type for all
time of the Celtic womanhood dowered with divine inspiration,
poetry, and charm. The following variant on an old Gaelic poem is
by Miss Fiona Macleod (From the Hills of Dream'): -
ST. BRIDGET'S MILKING SONG
sweet St. Bride of the
Yellow, yellow hair:
Paul said, and Peter said,
And all the saints alive or dead
O
Vowed she had the sweetest head,
Bonnie sweet St. Bride of the
Yellow, yellow hair.
White may my milking be,
White as thee:
Thy face is white, thy neck is white,
Thy hands are white, thy feet are white,
For thy sweet soul is shining bright—
O dear to me,
O dear to see,
St. Bridget white!
Yellow may my butter be,
Soft and round:
Thy breasts are sweet,
Soft, round, and sweet,
So may my butter be:
So may my butter be, O
Bridget sweet!
Safe thy way is, safe, O
Safe, St. Bride:
May my kye come home at even,
None be fallin', none be leavin',


## p. 3430 (#404) ###########################################

3430
CELTIC LITERATURE
Dusky even, breath-sweet even,
Here, as there, where, O
St. Bride, thou
Keepest tryst with God in heaven,
Seest the angels bow,
And souls be shriven --
Here, as there, 'tis breath-sweet even,
Far and wide-
Singeth thy little maid,
Safe in thy shade,
Bridget, Bride!
Passing from the early legendary hagiological chronicles of the
Scots Gaels, we come to a period when the reader must be content
to go again to Irish sources for his knowledge of the continuators of
Gaelic literature. What we have said previously of the Irish may be
referred to here. The mediæval scribes and bards busied themselves
mainly with reproducing the past, though with a vivid coloring out
of their own living present. When we have referred all of their
subject-matter dealing with the saints and heroic figures of primitive
history to its own period, all that remains is curiously little. Unfor-
tunately, it is less than it might have been, if it had not been for
the terrible and often wanton destruction of MSS. which has bereft
us, in Scotland especially, of some of the richest treasures the Celtic
genius has produced. It is only needed to instance the tailor who
was found cutting up an ancient MS. for patterns, to show how
almost inconceivably wholesale the havoc thus done has been in the
last six centuries.
Some of the most interesting and valuable of the Scottish con-
tributions to Gaelic literature are in what we may call ballad form.
Such is the tragic tale of 'Deirdrê,' in the Glen-mason MS. (thirteenth
century), which is preserved in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh.
Others again are versions of poems correspondent to those given,
for instance, in the Book of the Dean of Lismore. ' Of this heroic
poetry much would have been lost if it had not been for the zeal of
collectors, who for the last five centuries have been collecting in old
MSS.