No More Learning

While he lay stretched upon the ground the con-
stables scrambled off in disorder as fast as they were able, lest a
pair to my brother should arrive upon the scene.
Noticing that the tumult was not subsiding, I too rose from
table, and girding on my sword-for everybody wore one then
-I went to the bridge of Sant' Agnolo, where I saw a group of
several men assembled. On my coming up and being recognized
by some of them, they gave way before me and showed me
what I least of all things wished to see, albeit I made mighty
haste to view the sight. On the instant I did not know Cecchino,
since he was wearing a different suit of clothes from that in
which I had lately seen him. Accordingly he recognized, me
first and said, "Dearest brother, do not be upset by my grave
accident: it is only what might be expected in my profession;
get me removed from here at once, for I have but few hours to
live. " They had acquainted me with the whole event while he
was speaking, in brief words befitting such occasion. So I
answered, “Brother, this is the greatest sorrow and the greatest
trial that could happen to me in the whole course of my life.
But be of good cheer; for before you lose sight of him who did
the mischief, you shall see yourself revenged by my hand. ”
Our words on both sides were to the purport, but of the shortest.
The guard was now about fifty paces from us; for Maffio,
their officer, had made some of them turn back to take up the
corporal my brother killed. Accordingly, I quickly traversed that
short space, wrapped in my cape, which I had tightened round.
me, and came up with Maffio, whom I should most certainly
have murdered; for there were plenty of people round, and I
had wound my way among them. With the rapidity of lightning
I had half drawn my sword from the sheath, when Berlinghier
Berlinghieri, a young man of the greatest daring and my good
friend, threw himself from behind upon my arms; he had four
other fellows of like kidney with him, who cried out to Maffio,
Away with you, for this man here alone was killing you! " He
asked, "Who is he? " and they answered, "Own brother to the
man you see there. " Without waiting to hear more, he made
haste for Torre di Nona; and they said, "Benvenuto, we pre-
vented you against your will, but did it for your good; now let


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BENVENUTO CELLINI
3395
Accordingly we
us go to succor him who must die shortly. "
turned and went back to my brother, whom I had at once
conveyed into a house. The doctors who were called in con-
sultation treated him with medicaments, but could not decide to
amputate the leg, which might perhaps have saved him.
As soon as his wound had been dressed, Duke Alessandro
appeared and most affectionately greeted him. My brother had
not as yet lost consciousness; so he said to the Duke, "My lord,
this only grieves me, that your Excellency is losing a servant
than whom you may perchance find men more valiant in the
profession of arms, but none more lovingly and loyally devoted
to your service than I have been. " The Duke bade him do all
he could to keep alive; for the rest, he well knew him to be a
man of worth and courage. He then turned to his attendants,
ordering them to see that the brave young fellow wanted for
nothing.
When he was gone, my brother lost blood so copiously—for
nothing could be done to stop it-that he went off his head and
kept raving all the following night, with the exception that once,
when they wanted to give him the communion, he said, "You
would have done well to confess me before; now it is impossible
that I should receive the divine sacrament in this already ruined
frame; it will be enough if I partake of it by the divine virtue
of the eyesight, whereby it shall be transmitted into my immortal
soul, which only prays to Him for mercy and forgiveness. "
Having spoken thus, the Host was elevated; but he straightway
relapsed into the same delirious ravings as before, pouring forth
a torrent of the most terrible frenzies and horrible imprecations
that the mind of man could imagine; nor did he cease once all
that night until the day broke.
When the sun appeared above our horizon he turned to me
and said, "Brother, I do not wish to stay here longer, for these
fellows will end by making me do something tremendous, which
may cause them to repent of the annoyance they have given me. "
Then he kicked out both his legs-the injured limb we had
inclosed in a very heavy box-and made as though he would
fling it across a horse's back. Turning his face round to me, he
called out thrice, "Farewell, farewell! " and with the last word.
that most valiant spirit passed away.
At the proper hour, toward nightfall, I had him buried with.
due ceremony in the Church of the Florentines; and afterwards I


## p. 3396 (#370) ###########################################

3396
BENVENUTO CELLINI
erected to his memory a very handsome monument of marble,
upon which I caused trophies and banners to be carved. I must
not omit to mention that one of his friends had asked him who
the man was that had killed him, and if he could recognize him;
to which he answered that he could, and gave his description.
My brother indeed attempted to prevent this coming to my ears;
but I got it very well impressed upon my mind, as will appear
in the sequel.
AN ADVENTURE IN NECROMANCY
From the Memoirs): Symonds's Translation
IT
T HAPPENED through a variety of singular accidents that I be-
came intimate with a Sicilian priest, who was a man of very
elevated genius and well instructed in both Latin and Greek
letters. In the course of conversation one day we were led to
talk about the art of necromancy, apropos of which I said,
"Throughout my whole life I have had the most intense desire
to see or learn something of this art. " Thereto the priest
replied, "A stout soul and a steadfast must the man have who
sets himself to such an enterprise. " I answered that of strength
and steadfastness of soul I should have enough and to spare,
provided I found the opportunity. Then the priest said, "If
you have the heart to dare it, I will amply satisfy your curi-
osity. " Accordingly we agreed upon attempting the adventure.
The priest one evening made his preparations, and bade me
find a comrade, or not more than two. I invited Vincenzio
Romoli, a very dear friend of mine, and the priest took with
him a native of Pistoja, who also cultivated the black art. We
went together to the Coliseum; and there the priest, having
arrayed himself in necromancer's robes, began to describe circles
on the earth with the finest ceremonies that can be imagined. I
must say that he had made us bring precious perfumes and fire,
and also drugs of fetid odor. When the preliminaries were com-
pleted he made the entrance into the circle, and taking us by
the hand, introduced us one by one inside it. Then he assigned
our several functions; to the necromancer, his comrade, he gave
the pentacle to hold; the other two of us had to look after the
fire and the perfumes; and then he began his incantations. This
lasted more than an hour and a half; when several legions


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BENVENUTO CELLINI
3397
appeared, and the Coliseum was all full of devils. I was occu-
pied with the precious perfumes, and when the priest perceived
in what numbers they were present he turned to me and said,
"Benvenuto, ask them something. " I called on them to reunite.
me with my Sicilian Angelica. That night we obtained no
answer; but I enjoyed the greatest satisfaction of my curiosity in
such matters. The necromancer said that we should have to go
a second time, and that I should obtain the full accomplishment
of my request; but he wished me to bring with me a little boy
of pure virginity.
I chose one of my shop-lads, who was about twelve years old,
and invited Vincenzio Romoli again; and we also took a certain
Agnolino Gaddi, who was a very intimate friend of both. When
we came once more to the place appointed, the necromancer
made just the same preparations, attended by the same and even
more impressive details. Then he introduced us into the circle,
which he had reconstructed with art more admirable and yet
more wondrous ceremonies. Afterwards he appointed my friend
Vincenzio to the ordering of the perfumes and the fire, and with
him Agnolino Gaddi. He next placed in my hand the pentacle,
which he bid me turn toward the points he indicated, and under
the pentacle I held the little boy, my workman. Now the necro-
mancer began to utter those awful invocations, calling by name
on multitudes of demons who are captains of their legions, and
these he summoned by the virtue and potency of God, the
Uncreated, Living, and Eternal, in phrases of the Hebrew, and
also of the Greek and Latin tongues; insomuch that in a short
space of time the whole Coliseum was full of a hundredfold
as many as had appeared upon the first occasion. Vincenzio
Romoli, together with Agnolino, tended the fire and heaped on
quantities of precious perfumes. At the advice of the necro-
mancer I again demanded to be reunited with Angelica. The
sorcerer turned to me and said, "Hear you what they have
replied that in the space of one month you will be where she
is? " Then once more he prayed me to stand firm by him,
because the legions were a thousandfold more than he had sum-
moned, and were the most dangerous of all the denizens of hell;
and now that they had settled what I asked, it behoved us to be
civil to them and dismiss them gently. On the other side, the
boy, who was beneath the pentacle, shrieked out in terror that a
million of the fiercest men were swarming round and threatening
w


## p. 3398 (#372) ###########################################

3398
BENVENUTO CELLINI
us. He said moreover that four huge giants had appeared, who
were striving to force their way inside the circle. Meanwhile
the necromancer, trembling with fear, kept doing his best with
mild and soft persuasions to dismiss them. Vinçenzio Romoli,
who quaked like an aspen-leaf, looked after the perfumes.
Though I was quite as frightened as the rest of them, I tried to
show it less, and inspired them all with marvelous courage; but
the truth is that I had given myself up for dead when I saw the
terror of the necromancer. The boy had stuck his head between
his knees, exclaiming, "This is how I will meet death, for we
are certainly dead men. " Again I said to him,
Again I said to him, "These creatures
are all inferior to us, and what you see is only smoke and
shadow; so then raise your eyes. " When he had raised them he
cried out, "The whole Coliseum is in flames, and the fire is
advancing on us;" then covering his face with his hands, he
groaned again that he was dead, and that he could not endure
the sight longer. The necromancer appealed for my support,
entreating me to stand firm by him, and to have asafetida flung
upon the coals; so I turned to Vincenzio Romoli, and told him
to make the fumigation at once. While uttering these words I
looked at Agnolino Gaddi, whose eyes were starting from their
sockets in his terror, and who was more than half dead, and said
to him, "Agnolo, in time and place like this we must not yield
to fright, but do the utmost to bestir ourselves; therefore up
at once, and fling a handful of that asafetida upon the fire. "
The boy, roused by that great stench and noise, lifted
his face a little, and hearing me laugh, he plucked up courage,
and said the devils were taking to flight tempestuously. So we
abode thus until the matin bells began to sound. Then the boy
told us again that but few remained, and those were at a dis-
tance. When the necromancer had concluded his ceremonies he
put off his wizard's robe, and packed up a great bundle of books
which he had brought with him; then all together we issued
with him from the circle, huddling as close as we could to one
another, especially the boy, who had got into the middle, and
taken the necromancer by his gown and me by the cloak. All
the while that we were going toward our houses in the Banchi
he kept saying that two of the devils he had seen in the Coliseum
were gamboling in front of us, skipping now along the roofs
and now upon the ground. The necromancer assured me that
often as he had entered magic circles, he had never met with


## p. 3399 (#373) ###########################################

BENVENUTO CELLINI
3399
such a serious affair as this. He also tried to persuade me to
assist him in consecrating a book, by means of which we should
extract immeasurable wealth, since we could call up fiends to
show us where treasures were, whereof the earth is full; and
after this wise we should become the richest of mankind: love
affairs like mine were nothing but vanities and follies without
consequence. I replied that if I were a Latin scholar I should
be very willing to do what he suggested. He continued to per-
suade me by arguing that Latin scholarship was of no import-
ance, and that if he wanted, he could have found plenty of good
Latinists; but that he had never met with a man of soul so firm
as mine, and that I ought to follow his counsel. Engaged in
this conversation, we reached our homes, and each one of us
dreamed all that night of devils.
As we were in the habit of meeting daily, the necromancer
kept urging me to join in his adventure. Accordingly I asked
him how long it would take, and where we should have to go.
To this he answered that we might get through with it in less
than a month, and that the most suitable locality for the purpose
was the hill country of Norcia: a master of his in the art had
indeed consecrated such a book quite close to Rome, at a place
called the Badia di Farfa; but he had met with some difficulties
there, which would not occur in the mountains of Norcia: the
peasants also of that district are people to be trusted, and have
some practice in these matters, so that at a pinch they are able
to render valuable assistance.
This priestly sorcerer moved me so by his persuasions that
I was well disposed to comply with his request; but I said I
wanted first to finish the medals I was making for the Pope. I
had confided what I was doing about them to him alone, beg-
ging him to keep my secret. At the same time I never stopped
asking him if he believed that I should be reunited to my
Sicilian Angelica at the time appointed; for the date was drawing.
near, and I thought it singular that I heard nothing about her.
The necromancer told me that it was quite certain I should find
myself where she was, since the devils never break their word
when they promise, as they did on that occasion; but he bade
me keep my eyes open and be on the lookout against some
accident which might happen to me in that connection, and put
restraint upon myself to endure somewhat against my inclination,
for he could discern a great and imminent danger in it: well


## p. 3400 (#374) ###########################################

BENVENUTO CELLINI
3400
would it be for me if I went with him to consecrate the book,
since this would avert the peril that menaced me and would
make us both most fortunate.
I was beginning to hanker after the adventure more than he
did; but I said that a certain Maestro Giovanni of Castel
Bolognese had just come to Rome, very ingenious in the art of
making medals of the sort I made in steel, and that I thirsted
for nothing more than to compete with him and take the world
by storm with some great masterpiece, which I hoped would
annihilate all those enemies of mine by the force of genius and
not the sword. The sorcerer on his side went on urging,
"Nay, prithee, Benvenuto, come with me and shun a great dis-
aster which I see impending over you. " However, I had made
my mind up, come what would, to finish my medal, and we
were now approaching the end of the month. I was so absorbed
and enamored by my work that I thought no more about
Angelica or anything of that kind, but gave my whole self up
to it.
BENVENUTO LOSES SELF-CONTROL UNDER SEVERE
PROVOCATION
From the Memoirs': Symonds's Translation
I
T HAPPENED one day, close on the hours of vespers, that I had
to go, at an unusual time for me, from my house to my work-
shop; for I ought to say that the latter was in the Banchi,
while I lived behind the Banchi, and went rarely to the shop;
all my business there I left in the hands of my partner, Felice.
Having stayed a short while in the workshop, I remembered.
that I had to say something to Alessandro del Bene. So I arose,
and when I reached the Banchi, I met a man called Ser Bene-
detto, who was a great friend of mine. He was a notary, born
in Florence, son of a blind man who said prayers about the
streets for alms, and a Sienese by race. This Ser Benedetto had
been very many years at Naples; afterwards he had settled in
Rome, where he transacted business for some Sienese merchants
of the Chigi. My partner had over and over again asked him
for some moneys which were due for certain little rings con-
fided to Ser Benedetto. That very day, meeting him in the
Banchi, he demanded his money rather roughly, as his wont was.


## p. 3401 (#375) ###########################################

BENVENUTO CELLINI
3401
Benedetto was walking with his masters, and they, annoyed
by the interruption, scolded him sharply, saying they would be
served by somebody else, in order not to have to listen to such.
barking.
Ser Benedetto did the best he could to excuse himself, swore
that he had paid the goldsmith, and said he had no power to
curb the rage of madmen. The Sienese took his words ill, and
dismissed him on the spot. Leaving them, he ran like an arrow
to my shop, probably to take revenge upon Felice. It chanced
that just in the middle of the street we met. I, who had heard
nothing of the matter, greeted him most kindly, according to my
custom, to which courtesy he replied with insults. Then what
the sorcerer had said flashed all at once upon my mind; and
bridling myself as well as I was able, in the way he bade me,
I answered:
"Good brother Benedetto, don't fly into a rage with me, for
I have done you no harm, nor do I know anything about these
affairs of yours.
Please go and finish what you have to do with
Felice. He is quite capable of giving you a proper answer; but
inasmuch as I know nothing about it, you are wrong to abuse me
in this way, especially as you are well aware that I am not the
man to put up with insults. "
He retorted that I knew everything, and that he was the
man to make me bear a heavier load than that, and that Felice
and I were two great rascals. By this time a crowd had gathered
round to hear the quarrel. Provoked by his ugly words, I stooped
and took up a lump of mud - for it had rained—and hurled it
with a quick and unpremeditated movement at his face. He
ducked his head, so that the mud hit him in the middle of the
skull. There was a stone in it with several sharp angles, one
of which striking him, he fell stunned like a dead man; where-
upon all the bystanders, seeing the great quantity of blood,
judged that he was really dead.
While he was still lying on the ground, and people were
preparing to carry him away, Pompeo the jeweler passed by.
The Pope had sent for him to give orders about some jewels.
Seeing the fellow in such a miserable plight, he asked who had
struck him; on which they told him, "Benvenuto did it, but the
stupid creature brought it down upon himself. " No sooner had
Pompeo reached the Pope than he began to speak: "Most
blessed Father, Benvenuto has this very moment murdered


## p. 3402 (#376) ###########################################

BENVENUTO CELLINI
3402
Tobbia; I saw it with my own eyes. " On this the Pope in a
fury ordered the Governor, who was in the presence, to take and
hang me at once in the place where the homicide had been
committed; adding that he must do all he could to catch me,
and not appear again before him until he had hanged me.


## p. 3403 (#377) ###########################################

3403
CELTIC LITERATURE
BY WILLIAM SHARP AND ERNEST RHYS
HE widespread and deepening contemporary interest in Celtic
literature is primarily due to four distinct influences. The
publication (followed by its world-wide repute and the bit-
terest literary controversy of modern days) of Macpherson's 'Ossian'
comes first. There is no inorganic development in art, whether the
art of words or any other: in the fundamental sense, there is no acci-
dent. It is a mistake therefore to speak of Macpherson's 'Ossian ›
as a startling meteor which flashed across the world of literature, a
brief apparition out of a void into which it has returned, leaving only
a mass of débris to testify to its actuality and bygone splendor: a
mistake, for this famous production was indirectly but closely related
to another literary influence, the publication of Bishop Percy's cele-
brated Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. In art there is no
room for accidents: for art is an organic development, and the most
seemingly arbitrary variations are inevitable or at least natural.
After Macpherson's 'Ossian' the next important influence is the
'Mabinogion,' as retold in English from the early Welsh originals
by Lady Charlotte Guest. The influence, as well as the inherent
beauty and interest, of each of these famous productions will be
dealt with later in these volumes.
'Ossian' and the 'Mabinogion' afforded a new standpoint. The
two heralds of the treasure we have inherited in this Celtic literature
of the past were Ernest Renan and Matthew Arnold. Renan by his
treatise on 'La Poésie des Races Celtiques,' and later Matthew
Arnold by his essay on Celtic Literature,' accomplished an almost
inestimable service. Everything that has been done since is but a
variation along the lines indicated by these two great critics; and
with this result, that it is already a commonplace to say we have in
the Celtic literature of the past not only an almost inexhaustible
mine of beauty, but the material for a new and vivid Anglo-Celtic
literature of the imagination.
In the ensuing brief sketch of some of the main features of this
subject, at once so fascinating and so important, no attempt is made
to do other than to interest, and perhaps allure further, the general
reader. For convenience's sake, this brief paper may be divided into
four sections:-Irish, Scottish, Welsh, and Cornish.


## p. 3404 (#378) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3404
I-IRISH
"FROM what dragon's teeth, and when sown, sprang forth this
warlike crop? " asks Mr. Standish O'Grady, writing in his "History
of Ireland' of the host of famous heroic men and women whose
names have come down to us from the antique periods of the Gael.
"Out of the ground they start," he tells us, "the armies of her
demigods and champions,-beautiful heroic forms, -in the North the
Red Branch, in the South the Ernai or Clan Dega, in the West
Queen Meave and her champions, in the Southeast that mysterious
half-red Meave and her martial grooms! "
A wonderful world! that heroic Ireland, the old Ireland of Queen
Meave and Cuculain, which only now for the first time is become at
all a possible region for the most of us. It is due to the remark-
able modern band of Irish writers and scholars represented by Mr.
O'Grady in the one category, and his older namesake, Mr. Standish
Hayes O'Grady of the 'Silva Gadelica,' in the other, that this litera-
ture is at last unsealed for those readers who have no Gaelic equip-
ment to aid them. With their aid Queen Meave emerges into new
life in poetry and romance; Cuculain is seen fighting afresh his
ancient battles; and St. Patrick encounters again the primitive
Ossian: all these, fortunately, are now as much within the reach of
an American audience as their classic prototypes in Homer or in
the northern sagas. These few more familiar names, out of the vast
number which threaten confusion in the old Irish romances and
bardic books, may serve as clues in the perplexing labyrinth of a
subject which seems at first so difficult to penetrate. Take Queen
Meave, for instance: how do we arrive at her place and story, so
early in the centuries? She belongs to the second great cycle of
Irish legendary history, in which she has Cuculain, Conor mac
Nessa, Fergus, and Deirdrê, as companions in romance. In this cycle
the dramatic centre is the fierce interminable war between Con-
naught and Ulster, brought about by the treacherous murder of the
sons of Usnach. The story of their tragic end, and of the melan-
choly death of Deirdrê, is one of the most moving in all Irish tra-
dition. But the master-romance of the cycle is not that of Deirdrê,
but of Queen Meave and her foray in quest of the famous bull of
Louth; a tale familiar in Irish under its title of The Cattle-spoiling
of Cooley. '
If one is tired of the modern world and its literary interpreta-
tions, its self-conscious fictions and impressionistic poetry, one cannot
do better than dive deep into the past, where Queen Meave marches
in half-barbaric splendor and beauty across the stage of the ancient


## p. 3405 (#379) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3405
Eri, which was approximately contemporaneous with the birth of
Christ. That was the time when the Red Branch mustered in the
north its heroic array of warriors, descendants of Ir, the son of
Milesius; and of the Red Branch came Cuculain the mighty. Con-
naught, the Ireland west of the Shannon, was Queen Meave's patri-
mony, where still lived the chief remnant of the prehistoric Firbolgs,
the race that once fought with the gods themselves. And we have
still to supply the mid-Ireland, with Tara as capital, and Cairbre as
king; the Leinster of that day, subject to Finn and Far-Cu; and the
Munster, subject to Lok and Eocha, with the children of Conairy
Mór the Beautiful, too, ranging the south in their fullness of power.
The colors to be got out of this Celtic antiquity, the spirit of life
that surges in its romantic annals, the fine fury of its heroes, the
beauty and picturesqueness of its women, combine to make a story
that only an Ireland of the first century could have inspired, and
that only an Ireland of the sixth to the ninth century could have
written.
Throughout Celtic history, the sixth century is for many reasons
a climacteric period. In Irish literature, we reach about the year
575 a first point to which we can refer approximately the more con-
scious operation of its genius. Then it was that it made its first
open claim to something like a national recognition. At the famous
conclave of that year, held at Druimceta, it attained an almost aca-
demic position and organization. In this conclave, the then king of
the Scottish Gaels, the leading King of the Irish, and St. Columcill,
assisted at the deliberations which decided the caste and privileges
of the Illuminati. There seem to have been three grades: the first,
a pseudo-Druidic order, the Gradh Ecna; the second, one of law-
makers and lawyers; the third, the Bardic order, the Gradh Fili, the
poets being termed File in Irish. Of the many degrees to which the
poets or File could attain, the highest (as in the other grades, of
Ecna, "Wisdom," and of Fene, "Law") was the Ollave, or Doctor.
These doctors of literature, so to call them, were already the con-
tinuators of a great tradition, especially in poetry. They had to
carry, written only in their heads, an immense body of bardic and
religious legendary history and philosophy. And inasmuch as they
were the sole depositories of this profound and occult learning, to
say nothing of those heroic tales and romances in which the Celtic
people so delighted, they received high honor wherever they went.
When the chief poet, the ollave, or doctor of poetry, arrived, in his
weather-beaten cloak of dark crimson trimmed with white feathers,
accompanied by his little band of disciples, at some chieftain's
house, he was received with signal hospitality and treated to the
best his host could afford.


## p. 3406 (#380) ###########################################

3406
CELTIC LITERATURE
While literature was still oral, it is clear that despite the care
used in its preservation in the bardic schools, it could not be main-
tained with the absolute accuracy of a written or a printed text.
The remoter the historical matter to be remembered, the less likely
was it to be preserved, literatim et verbatim, without those little liber-
ties of the imagination which the Celtic word-master of earlier ages
was always ready to take. Thus the first cycle of Irish legendary
history, dating back many centuries before the Christian era,- the
primitive and mythological cycle, - allows full license to the imagina-
tion, working upon a basis of semi-barbaric tradition, with a mixture
in it of nature-myths and remotest history. Both because of the
extent and the extreme difficulty of the materials afforded by this
cycle in the study of the pre-Christian religious beliefs of the Celtic
races, its stories will always form a great hunting-ground for Celtic
students. We learn from it how the Nemedians were overtaken by
the Fomorians and fought with them, almost to extermination, on
Tory Island, escaping then to the south of Europe, particularly to
Greece; and a couple of centuries later returned, under their new
name of the Firbolgs. The Nemedians meanwhile supplied similarly
a recrudescent race, the Tuatha Dé Danann, of whom came the
Dagda, the all-king, almost the Zeus of ancient Ireland. The same
cycle supplies us also with the mythical types correspondent to those
of the Greek mythology: e. g. , Ogmuir, the Irish Heracles; Lug or
Lugh, the Apollo; Diancéa, the Esculapius; Manannan, the Neptune;
and so forth. We have also Bridget, the Goddess of Poetry, the
Gaelic Muse, and the first and foremost of the many illustrious
Brians of Gaelic story. Later critics differ ingeniously about the pre-
cise origins and significations of many of these prehistoric figures.
Our own conjecture is, and it lays claim to no great originality or
finality, that we have in this Danann cycle an all-but inextricable
commixture of primitive nature-myths and folk-tales brought by
the Milesian and pre-Milesian immigrants from the Aryan cradle in
the East, together with a certain addition of confused history relat-
ing to the earliest adventures of the new-come races upon Irish
ground. But such as this traditional cycle was, it provided the
background for the much later second cycle, of which we have
already spoken, and which bears the Red Branch aloft as a sign. In
sight of the Red Branch, the darker part of the journey is over; and
the mists of mythology only form the veil shutting out all but the
mere human foreground.
We have spoken so far of two cycles-the Mythological, whose
chronology is a matter for further criticism to decide; the Heroic,
or Red Branch, which we place at the beginning of the Christian
era.


## p. 3407 (#381) ###########################################

CELTIC LITERATURE
3407
Now we come to a third cycle: the "Fenian," named after Finn
Mac Cool, according to most Irish writers; the "Ossianic," named
after Ossian, Finn's famous son, according to most Scotch. We need
only speak of it here of course on its purely Irish side and from
the Fenian aspect, as the reader will find it fully dealt with under
its Ossianic aspect elsewhere. The heroes of this cycle, if we accept
their historical existence in Ireland, lived from the second to the
fourth centuries of the Christian era. Art, his grandson Cormac,
and Cormac's son, Cairbre; Cool, his son Finn, and King Goll: these,
with Owen Mor and many another, fill the Fenian romances with
their fierce and picturesque pursuit of destiny and death.
They only
await the hand of that predestined shaper into final and positive and
modernly intelligible form of the confused romances which treat of
their doings, to add a new epic to the larger literature which has the
Old World for its text and the New World for its interpreter.
These three great cycles of Irish romance by no means exhaust
the wealth of story, still lurking perdu in old MSS. or in rare and
rarely read works. Some of these additional tales have already
reached American readers under modern retellings or poetic inter-
pretations; such as, e. g. , 'The Voyage of Maeldune,' retold mem-
orably, and differently enough, in flowing hexametrical periods by
Tennyson:-
-
"And we came to the Isle of Shouting; we landed; a score of wild birds
Cried from the topmost summit with human voices and words;
Once in an hour they cried, and whenever their voices pealed,
The steer fell down at the plow and the harvest died from the field,
And the men dropt dead in the valleys, and half of the cattle went lame,
And the roof sank in on the hearth, and the dwelling broke into flame;
And the shouting of these wild birds ran into the hearts of my crew,
Till they shouted along with the shouting, and seized one another and slew;
But I drew them the one from the other; I saw that we could not stay,
And we left the dead to the birds, and we sailed with our wounded away. "
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.