 Section 36 of Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 8. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Colleen McMahon. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 8. Section 36. Selected Excerpts by Benvenuto Cellini. A Necklace of Pearls from the Memoirs, Simon's Translation. I must beg your attention now, most gracious reader, for a very terrible event which happened. I used the utmost diligence in industry to complete my statue and went to spend my evenings in the Duke's Wardrobe, assisting there the goldsmiths who were working for his Excellency. Indeed, they laboured mainly on designs which I had given them. Noticing that the Duke took pleasure in seeing me at work and talking with me, I took it into my head to go there sometimes also by day. It happened upon one of those days that his Excellency came as usual to the room where I was occupied, and more particularly because he heard of my arrival. His Excellency entered at once into conversation, raising several interesting topics, upon which I gave my views so much to his entertainment that he showed more cheerfulness than I had ever seen in him before. All of a sudden one of his secretaries appeared and whispered something of importance in his ear, whereupon the Duke rose and retired with the official into another chamber. Now the Duchess had sent to see what his Excellency was doing, and her page brought back the answer. The Duke is talking and laughing with Benvenuto and is an excellent good humour. When the Duchess heard this she came immediately to the Wardrobe, and not finding the Duke there took a seat beside us. After watching us at work awhile she turned to me with the utmost graciousness and showed me a necklace of large and really very fine pearls. On being asked by her what I thought of them, I said it was in truth a very handsome ornament. Then she spoke as follows, I should like the Duke to buy them for me, so I beg you, my dear Benvenuto, to praise them to him as highly as you can. At these words I disclosed my mind to the Duchess, with all the respect I could, and answered, My lady, I thought this necklace of pearls belonged already to your illustrious Excellency. Now that I am aware that you have not yet acquired them, it is right, nay, more, it is my duty to utter what I might otherwise have refrained from saying. Namely, that my mature professional experience enables me to detect very grave faults in the pearls, and for this reason I could never advise your Excellency to purchase them. She replied, The merchant offers them for six thousand crowns, and where it not for some of those trifling defects you speak of, the rope would be worth over twelve thousand. To this I replied that even where the necklace of quite flawless quality, I could not advise anyone to bid up to five thousand crowns for it, for pearls are not gems, pearls are but fishes bones, which in the course of time must lose their freshness. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires on the contrary never grow old. These four are precious stones, and these it is right to purchase. When I had thus spoken, the Duchess showed some signs of irritation and exclaimed, I have a mind to possess these pearls, so prithee take them to the duke and praise them up to the skies, even if you have to use some words beyond the bounds of truth. Speak them to do me service, it will be well for you. I've always been the greatest friend of truth and foe of lies, yet compelled by necessity, unwilling to lose the favor of so great a princess, I took those confounded pearls sorely against my inclination, and went with them over to the other room, whither the duke had withdrawn. No sooner did he set eyes upon me than he cried, Oh Benvenuto, what are you about here? I uncovered the pearls and said, My Lord, I am come to show you a most splendid necklace of pearls, of the rarest quality and truly worthy of your excellency. I do not believe it would be possible to put together eighty pearls which could show better than these do on a necklace. My counsel therefore is that you should buy them, for they are in good soothe miraculous. He responded on the instant, I do not choose to buy them. They are not pearls of the quality and goodness you affirm, I have seen the necklace and they do not please me. Pardon me, Prince, these pearls exceed in rarity and beauty any which were ever brought together for a necklace. The duchess had risen and was standing behind a door listening to all I said. Well, when I had praised the pearls a thousandfold more warmly than I have described above, the duke turned toward me with a kindly look and said, Oh my dear Benvenuto, I know that you have an excellent judgment in all these matters. If the pearls are as rare as you certify, I should not hesitate about their purchase, partly to gratify the duchess and partly to possess them. Seeing I have always need of such things, not so much for her grace as for the various uses of my sons and daughters. When I heard him speak thus, having once begun to tell fibs, I stuck to them with even greater boldness. I gave all the color of truth I could to my lies, confiding in the promise of the duchess to help me at the time of need. More than two hundred crowns were to be my commission on the bargain, and the duchess had intimated that I should receive so much, but I was firmly resolved not to touch a farthing in order to secure my credit and convince the duke I was not prompted by avarice. Once more his excellency began to address me with the greatest courtesy. I know that you are a consummate, judge of these things. Therefore, if you are the honest man I always thought you, tell me now the truth. Thereat I flushed up to my eyes, which at the same time filled with tears and said to him, My lord, if I tell your most illustrious excellency the truth, I shall make a mortal foe of the duchess. This will oblige me to depart from Florence, and my enemies will begin at once to pour contempt upon my Perseus, which I have announced as a masterpiece to the most noble school of your illustrious excellency. Such being the case, I recommend myself to your most illustrious excellency. The duke was now aware that all my previous speeches had been, as it were, forced out of me, so he rejoined, If you have confidence in me, you need not stand in fear of anything whatever. I recommend, alas, my lord, what can prevent this coming to the ears of the duchess. The duke lifted his hand in sign of troth pledge and exclaimed, Be assured that what you say will be buried in a diamond casket. To this engagement upon honor I replied by telling the truth according to my judgment, namely that the pearls were not worth above two thousand crowns. The duchess, thinking we had stopped talking, for we were now speaking in as low a voice as possible, came forward and began as follows, My lord, do me the favor to purchase this necklace, because I have set my heart on them, and your benvenuto here has said he never saw a finer row of pearls. The duke replied, I do not choose to buy them. Why, my lord, will not your excellency gratify me by buying them? Because I do not care to throw my money out of the window. The duchess recommenced, What do you mean by throwing your money away when benvenuto, in whom you place such well merited confidence, has told me that they would be cheap at over three thousand crowns? Then the duke said, My lady, my benvenuto here is told me that if I purchase this necklace I shall be throwing my money away, in as much as the pearls are neither round nor well matched, and some of them are quite faded. To prove that this is so, look here, look there, consider this one, and then that, the necklace is not the sort of thing for me. At these words the duchess cast a glance of bitter spite at me, and retired with a threatening nod of her head in my direction. I felt tempted to pack off at once and bid farewell to Italy. Yet, my Perseus being all but finished, I did not like to leave without exposing it to public view. But I asked everyone to consider in what a grievous plight I found myself. How Benvenuto lost his brother, from the memoirs Simon's Translation. My brother at this period was also in Rome, serving Duke Alessandro, on whom the Pope had recently conferred the Duchy of Pena. This prince kept in his service a multitude of soldiers, worthy fellows, brought up to Valor in the school of that famous general Giovanni de Medici, and among these was my brother, whom the Duke esteemed as highly as the bravest of them. One day my brother went after dinner to the shop of a man called Baccino della Croci, in the Banci, which all those men-at-arms frequented. He had flung himself upon a settee and was sleeping. Just then, the guard of the Bargello passed by. They were taking to prison a certain Captain Chisti, a lumbard, who had also been a member of Giovanni's troupe, but was not in the service of the Duke. The Captain, Cattavanza de Glistrozzi, chanced to be in the same shop, and when Chisti caught sight of him he whispered, I was bringing you these crowns I owed, if you want them, come for them now before they go with me to prison. Now Cattavanza had a way of putting his neighbors to the push, not caring to hazard his own person. So finding there around him several young fellows of the highest daring, more eager than apt for so serious an enterprise, he bade them catch up Captain Chisti and get the money from him, and if the guard resisted, overpower the men provided they had pluck enough to do so. The young men were but four, and all four of them without a beard. The first was called Bertino Adabrandi, another Anguilado of Luca, I cannot recall the names of the rest. Bertino had been trained like a pupil by my brother, and my brother felt the most unbounded love for him. So then, off-dash the four brave lads and came up with the guard of the Bargello, upwards of fifty constables counting pikes, archbuses, and two-handed swords. After a few words they drew their weapons and the four boys so harried the guard that if Captain Cattavanza had but shown his face, without so much as drawing, they would certainly have put the whole pack to flight. But Delay spoiled off, for Bertino received some ugly wounds and fell. At the same time Anguilado was also hit in the right arm, and being unable to use his sword got out of the fray as well as he was able. The others did the same. Bertino Adabrandi was lifted from the ground, seriously injured. While these things were happening we were all at table. For that morning we had dined more than an hour later than usual. On hearing the commotion one of the old man's sons, the elder, rose from the table to go and look at the scuffle. He was called Giovanni, and I said to him, for heaven's sake don't go. In such matters one is always certain to lose while there is nothing to be gained. His father spoke to like purpose, pray my son, don't go. But the lad, without heeding anyone, ran down the stairs. Reaching the banchi, where the great scrimmage was, and seeing Bertino lifted from the ground, he ran towards home, and met my brother Cicino on the way, who asked him what was the matter. Though some of the bystanders signed to Giovanni not to tell Cicino, he cried out like a madman how it was that Bertino Adabrandi had been killed by the guard. My poor brother gave vent to a bellow which might have been heard ten miles away. Then he turned to Giovanni. How me? But could you tell me which of those men killed him for me? Giovanni said yes, that it was a man who had a big two-handed sword with a blue feather in his bonnet. My poor brother rushed ahead, and having recognized the homicide by those signs he threw himself with all his dash and spirit into the middle of the band, and before his man could turn on guard ran him right through the guts, and with the sword's hilt thrust him to the ground. Then he turned upon the rest with such energy and daring that his one arm was on the point of putting the whole band to flight. Had it not been that while wheeling round to strike an archbus year, this man fired in self-defense and hit the brave, unfortunate young fellow above the knee of his right leg. While he lay stretched upon the ground the constables 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'Agnello, 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 wish to see, albeit I made mighty haste to view the sight. On the instant I did not know Cicino, for he was wearing a different suit of clothes from that in which I had lately seen him. Suddenly 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 revenge 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 Mafio 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 Mafio, 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 Berlingheer Berlingheery, a young man of the greatest airing 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 Mafio, "'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 Denona, and they said, "'Benvenuto, we prevented you against your will, but did it for your good. Now let us go to succor he who must die shortly.' Accordingly we turned and went back to my brother, whom I had at once conveyed into a house. The doctors who were called in consultation 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 straightaway relapsed into the same delirious ravings as before, pouring forth a torrent of the most terrible frenzies and horrible implications 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 enclosed 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 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 Simon's Translation It happened through a variety of singular accidents that I became 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, a propo of which I said, throughout my whole life I have had the most intense desire to see or learn something of this art. There to 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 curiosity. 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 Vincenzo Romoli, a very dear friend of mine, and the priest took with him a native of Pistoia, who also cultivated the black art. We went together to the Colosseum, 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 completed he had made the entrance into the circle, and taking us by the hand introduced us one by one inside of 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 appeared, and the Colosseum was all full of devils. I was occupied 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 Vincenzo Romoli again, and we also took a certain Agnolino Gaudi, 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 Vincenzo to the ordering of the perfumes in the fire, and with him Agnolino Gaudi. He next placed in my hand the pentacle, which he bid me turn towards the points he indicated, and under the pentacle I held the little boy, my workman. Now the necromancer 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, in so much that in a short space of time the whole Colosseum was full of a hundred fold as many as had appeared on the first occasion. Vincenzo Romoli, together with Agnolino, tended the fire and heaped on quantities of precious perfumes. At the advice of the necromancer 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 summoned, 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 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. Vincenzo 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 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, 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 Colosseum is in flames and the necromancer appealed for my support in treating me to stand firm by him and to have Asafedda flung upon the coals, so I turned to Vincenzo Romoli and told him to make the fumigation at once. While uttering these words I looked at Agnilino Gatti, 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 bestar ourselves, therefore up at once and fling a handful of that Asafedda 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 mat and bells began to sound. Then the boy told us again that but few remained and those were at a distance. When the necromancer was in the loop and packed up a great bundle of books which he had brought with him. Then altogether 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 Banshee he kept saying that two of the devils he had seen in the Colosseum were gambling in front of us, skipping now along the roofs and now upon the windows he had entered magic circles he had never met with 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, where of 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, he would have suggested. He continued to persuade me by arguing that Latin scholarship was of no importance and that if he wanted he could have found plenty of good Latinists, but 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 we had to go along it would take and where we should have to go. To this he entered 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 Nortia. A master of his in the art had indeed consecrated such a book quite close to Rome at a place called the Badia de Farfa, but he had met with some difficulties there which would not occur in the mountains of Nortia. The peasants also of that district are people to make matters so that at a pinch they are able to render valuable assistance. The 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, begging him to keep my secret. At the same time I never stopped asking him if he believed that I should be reunited to my Cisilian Angelica at the time appointed. For I was going near and I thought it singular that I had 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 to 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 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 skill, and I was able to manipulate all those enemies of mine by the force of genius and not the sword. The sorcerer on his side went on urging, nay, pretty Benvenuto, come with me and shun a great disaster 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 Benvenuto loses self-control under severe provocation from the memoirs Simon's translation. It 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 workshop, 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 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 Benedetto 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 friend had, over and over again, asked him for some monies which were due for certain little rings confided to Ser Benedetto. That very day, meeting him in the banchi, he demanded his money rather roughly as his want was. 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 he 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 in as much 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 it, and 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 hid him in the middle of the skull. There was a stone in it with several sharp blades like a dead man. Whereupon 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 Benvenudo did it, but the stupid creature brought it down upon himself. No sooner had Pompeo left than he began to speak. Most blessed father, Benvenudo has this very moment murdered Tobiah. I sell 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. Recorded by Colleen McMahon The widespread and deepening contemporary interest in Celtic literature is primarily due to four distinct influences. The publication, followed by its worldwide repute, and the bitrest literary controversy of modern days of McPherson's Ocean comes first. There is no inorganic development in art, whether the art of words or any other. In the fundamental sense there is no accident. It is a mistake therefore to speak of McPherson's Ocean 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 massive debris 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 celebrated relics 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 McPherson's Ocean the next important influence is the Mabinogen as retold in English from the early Welsh originals by Lady Charlotte Guest. The influence as well as inherent beauty and interest of each of these famous productions will be dealt with later in these volumes. Ocean and Mabinogen afforded a new standpoint. The two heralds of the treasure we have inherited in this Celtic literature of the past were Ernest Rennan and Matthew Arnold. Rennan by his treatise we see Deras Celtic and later Matthew Arnold by his essay on Celtic literature accomplished on 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 common place to say we have in the Celtic literature of the past not only an almost inestimable mind of beauty but the material for a new and vivid Anglo-Celtic literature of 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 the general reader. For convenience's sake this brief paper may be divided into four sections Irish, Scottish Welsh and Cornish. One Irish From what dragon's teeth and whence on sprung 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 period of the gale. 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 airnay or clan Degas in the west Queen Maeve in the south east that mysterious half red Maeve and her marshal grooms a wonderful world that heroic Ireland the old Ireland of Queen Maeve and Cochalin which only now for the first time is become at all a possible region for the most of us. It is due to the remarkable modern band of Irish writers and scholars represented by Mr. O'Grady in one category and his older namesake Mr. Standish Hayes O'Grady of the Silva Gadelika in the other that this literature is at last unsealed for those readers who have no Gaelic equipment to aid them with their aid Queen Maeve emerges into new life in poetry and romance Cochalin is seen fighting afresh his ancient battles and St. Patrick encounters again the primitive Ocean all these fortunately are now as much within the reach of an American audience as their classic prototypes in Homer or in the northern Zagas these few more familiar names out of the vast number of western 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 Maeve for instance how do we arrived at her place and story so early in the centuries she belongs to the second great cycle of Irish legendary history as Cochalin Conor Mac Nessa Fergus and Derdre as companions in romance in this cycle the dramatic center is the fierce interminable war between Conot and Ulster brought about by the treacherous murder of the sons of Usnash the story of their tragic end and of the melancholy death of Derdre is one of the most moving in all Irish traditions but the master romance of the cycle is not that of Derdre but of Queen Maeve and her foray in quest of the famous bull of Loth a tale familiar in Irish under its title of the cattle spoiling of Cooley if one is tired of the modern world its literary interpretations its self-conscious fictions and impressionistic poetry one can do better than dive deep into the past where Queen Maeve marches in half-barbaric splendor and beauty across the stage of the ancient Erie which was approximately contemporaneous with the birth of Christ that was the time when the red branch in the north its heroic array of warriors descendants of Er sons of Miletius and of the red branch come Cacallan the mighty Connott the Ireland west of Shannon was Queen Maeve's patrimony where still leave the chief remnant of the prehistoric furbolgs the race that once fought with the gods themselves and we have still to supply the mid-Ireland with Tara as capital and Kiribri as king the lanster of the day subject to Finn and Farku and a monster subject to Locke and Ioka with the children of Connery Mor the beautiful too ranging the south in their fullness of power the colors to be got out 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 combined to make a story that only an Ireland of the first century could have inspired and that only an Ireland of the sixth to 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 the first point to which we can refer approximately to more conscious 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 Drewim Cera it attained an almost academic position and organization in this conclave the then king of the Scottish Gaels the leading king of the Irish and St Colomsel assisted at the deliberations which decided the cast and privileges of the Illuminati there seem to have been three grades the first a pseudo bardic order the grad ekna the second one of lawmakers and lawyers the third the bardic order the grad philly the poets being termed philly in Irish of the many degrees to which the poets or philly could attain the highest as in the other grades of ekna, wisdom the oleve or doctor these doctors of literature were already the continuators 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 in as much 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 honour wherever they went when the chief poet the oleve or doctor of poetry arrived in his weather-bitten 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 while literature was still oral it is clear that despite the care used in its preservation in the bardic schools it could not be maintained with the absolute accuracy of a written or printed text the remotor the historical matter to be remembered the less likely was it to be preserved literatim at verbatim without those little liberties of the imagination which the Celtic wordmaster 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 imagination 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 Namedians were overtaken by the Fomorians and fought with them almost extermination on Tory island escaping them to the south of Europe particularly to Greece and a couple of centuries later returned under their new name of the Fairbolgs the Namedians meanwhile supplied similarly a recredescent race the Tuatha de Danann of whom came the Dagda the old king almost the Zeus of ancient Ireland the same cycle supplies us also with the mythical types of correspondent to those of Greek mythology for example Ogmur Heracles Lug or Lug the Apollo Diancia the Escolapius Mananan the Neptune and so forth we have also bridged the goddess of poetry the Gaelic muse and the first and foremost of the many illustrious brines of Gaelic story later critics differ ingeniously about the precise origins in 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 connexure of primitive nature myth and folk tales brought by the Milgian and pre-Milgian immigrants from the Arian cradle in the east together with a certain addition of confused history relating to the earliest adventures of the newcomer 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 a 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 now we come to a third cycle the Fenian named after Fin Mak Kul according to most Irish writers the Oceanic named after Ocean fin famous son according to most scotch we need only speak of it here of course when it's purely Irish side and from the Fenian aspect as the reader will find it fully dealt with under its Oceanic 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 Kormak and Kormak's son Kerbry Kul, his son and King Gol these with Owen Moore 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 their doings to add a new epic to the larger literature which has the old world for its next and the new world for its interpreter these three great cycles of Irish romance by no means exhaust the wealth of story still lurking per due in old MSS or in rare and rarely read works these additional tales have already reached American readers under modern retelling or poetic interpretations such as example the voyage of the Maldoon retold memorably and differently enough in a flowing hexometrical periods by Tennyson and we came to the Isle of Shouting we landed a square of wild birds cried from the top most summit with human voices and words once in an hour they cried and whenever their voices peeled the steer fell down at the plow and the harvest died from the field and the men dropped dead in the valleys and half of the cattle went lame and the roof sunk in onto the earth into flame and the shouting of these wild birds run into the parts of my crew till they shouted along with a 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 Eren comprising the fate of children of Usna or Derde the fate of the children of Lyr and the fate of the children of Turin the names of the three others are the voyage of the Meldon the oldest copy of which is dated 1100 the pursuit of Dermot and Grania and Ocean in the land of youth of these perhaps the story of Derde is the best known and American readers may be referred to the fine epical version by Dr. Robert D. Joyce Derde published some years ago by Robert's brothers of Boston two brief examples of the short episodical narratives which make up the marvelous voyage of the Meldon may be cited here the Miller of Hell and Science of Home the latter giving the return of the Celtic Ulysses and his companions the Miller of Hell the next island they came to which was not far off from the last had a large mill on it and near the door stood the Miller a huge-bodied strong burly man they saw numberless 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 covered the plain as far as they 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 in the mouth of his mill on the ground and all as they came forth went westward Meldon 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 few words this mill is called the Mill of Invertrek and And and I am the Miller of Hell all the corn and all the reaches 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 Invertrek and And and send them way afterwards to the west he spoke no more but turned round and visit himself again with his mill and the voyagers with much wonder and all in their hearts went to their kurag and sailed away signs of home soon after they saw a beautiful verdant island with herds of oxen cows and sheep browsing all over its hills and valleys 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 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 Meldon see that falcon surely like the falcons of Eren watch him closely cried Meldon 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 Eren of all the books of the kind published since McPherson's ocean Lady Charlotte's guest Mabinodian and Wille Mark Barza's Prize this collection of Dr. Joyce's has had the most marked influence 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 unquestionably the best a translation he says may either follow the very words or reproduce the life and the spirit of the original but no translation can do both if you render word for word you lose the spirit if you wish to give the spirit and mana 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 a narrative and incident but so far as mere phraseology is concerned I have used the English language freely not allowing myself to be troubled by too close in 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 stories as I can see if the old Shanakes themselves 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 Cugleme which we owe to Dr. Kuno Mayer London nut among the legendary Celtic romances is the short but beautiful and characteristic account of the Italian expedition to the Isle of Blast or the land of the youth and his subsequent return as an old and decrypt man in a word the Celtic Ripavan Winkle this legend not only underlies all the spiritual romances of Celtic Ireland and Scotland but has profoundly appealed to the imagination of the Irish race of today whether under the badge of the Rose, the Thistle the Shamrock or the Leak whether under the banner of the United Kingdom or that of the Stars and Stripes Oisin and Tirna Nog or The Last of the Fanny according to an ancient legend Finn's son Oisin the hero poet to the time of Saint Patrick 200 years the legend makes it 300 after the other Fanny on a certain occasion when the Saint asked him how he had lived to such a great age the old hero related his story I lived in the land of youth more than 300 years but it appeared to me that only 3 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 Neam and of the king to visit Erin the king gave permission and Neam 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 and 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 he left it the great king Finn his fanny are all gone and you will find instead of them a holy father and host of priests and saints now think well and what I say to you and keep my words in your mind if once you are light from the white steed you will never come back to me again I warn you if you place your feet on the green sod in Erin you will never return to this lovely land a third time oh Oisin my beloved husband a third time I say to you if you are light 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 light from the white steed then as I looked into her gentle face and I marked her grief my heart was 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 towards 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 straight way 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 Nahum's saying was coming true at length I stayed 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 Fanny 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 Fanny of Erin in times of old and who never had an equal for bravery and wisdom the poets of Gaels have written many books concerning his deeds and the deeds of Fanny which we cannot now relate but they are all gone long since for they lived many ages ago we have heard also and we have seen is written in very old books that Finn had a son named Oisin now this Oisin went with a young fairy maiden to Ternanog and his father and his friends saw road greatly after him and sought him long 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 wandering people and set forward straight away for Alan of the mighty deeds on the broad green plains of Lainster it was a miserable journey to me and through my mind being full of sadness but all I saw and heard forecasted further sorrows I was grieved more than ever when I reached Alan for there indeed I found hill deserted and lonely and my father's place all in ruins and overgrown with grass and weeds I turned slowly away and afterwards fell through the land in every direction in search of my friends but I met only crowds of people all strangers who gazed on me with wonder and none near me I visited every place throughout the country where I knew the fanny had lived but I found their houses all like Alan solitary and in ruins at length I came to Glenna small where many a time I had hunted in days of old with fanny where I saw crowd of people in the Glen as soon as they saw me one of them came forward and said come to us though mighty hero and help us out of our strait for though 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 and 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 you 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 a great strain the golden subtle 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 himself and nade then starting off with the speed of a cloud shadow on a march day he left me standing helpless and sorrowful 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 seizing for my gentle golden-haired wife Niam and thinking ever of my father and of the lost companions of my youth between these romances and the first definite Christian writings the numerous oceanic colloquies and narrative poems and the Irish anals form the connected links the oceanic poetry even where it is especially Irish in character we have elected to live aside 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 50,000 lines even on a fairly moderate computation turning to the anals we are confronted at once by that extraordinary repository of Irish lore history and legend known as the anals of the Four Masters the remarkable testament of the Irish genius was due primarily to the zeal and energy of Michael O'Claire born at Donegal about 1580 the last of a long line of scholars having become a Franciscan in his conventional calling he was living far away from his native soil at St. Anthony's monastery in Louvain but there he had another Donegal man Ed the son of Baird Ward for fellow worker and the two together form the idea of collecting and putting into permanent form the valuable M.S Flotsam the old Irish literature which in the early days wandering in their own land they had found drifting insecurely hither and thither the plan they proposed was for O'Claire to get leave of absence and return to Ireland there to roam up and down the land collecting and copying every valuable M.S he could lay hands on then transmitting the copy to his co-worker in Louvain Ed 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 anals of the four masters calling it after the four men who chiefly collaborated in the work Michael O'Claire Farfasa O'Mull Conry Peregrine O'Claire and Peregrine O'Douganan the anals thus laboriously brought to a triumphant close carry history back to the deluge and down to the years contemporary with their compilers and authors in the early part of the 17th century there is no event of Irish history says Dr. Hyde from the birth of Christ to the beginning of the 17th century that he first inquiry of the student will not be what do the four masters say about it the anals indeed present in their curiosity epitomized and synchronized pages the concentrated essence of thousands and fused 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 the porto edition present the text with an accompanying English translation 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 worldwide name and fame which most clearly mark the early Christian history of Ireland when the new divine creed entered into the land have confronted the Celtic paganism many are the exquisite legends of St. Patrick often so naively and so tenderly told with glimmerings here and there already of the humor which will connect so much with the Irish temper of mind its greatest stimulus when an Irishman of earlier times wished in all courtesy to reconcile his old fighting instincts with the Christian gentleness and self-sacrifice this as it may be the hageology of the medieval Irishman is in delightful contrast to the tales of the battle and foray in the agree great 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 role as a lawmaker and reviser in connection with the revision of the John Law deserves serious attention similarly though we do not accept more than a small part of the poems attributed to him as really is there is enough to show him a poet as well as a great teacher and preacher and law giver what is most to the purpose perhaps is that he made his life a poem so that the medieval scribes can hardly speak of him without adorning and beautifying the tale they have to tell less known but hardly less interesting is Saint Columnsil whom Dr. Hyde claims to have been both in his failings and his virtues to most typical of Irishman at once sentimental and impulsive an eminent type of the race he came from Dr. Hyde goes on to relate in illustrations 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 a flight upon the rocky coast there he sent out one of his monks to go around 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 kelt in exile the lives of the saints form altogether a most important characteristic section of Irish literature even when composed in Latin they remain so saturated with Celtic feeling and colouring that they may fairly be counted among Irish books Dr. Hyde names several Latin lives of Saint Patrick alone ascribed to Saint Benignus Saint Ultaan Saint Eliran and others of his later followers of Saint Columnsil Saint Columba one of the fullest written in Irish in 16th century was compiled at Leifard under the direction of Manus O'Donnell Prince of Tirconel though Adam Nann's Latin life of the saint is the most important book on the subject even 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 9th to 11th centuries draws a red line across the history of its literature during that troubled period many of the most useless of its MSS were destroyed and violent disruptions threatened every phase of learning however the old impulse of the 6th century still lived and we find in the 10th Cormac Bishop of Casual first among a redoubtable band of letters and men of affairs seriously 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 Gormley his betrothed bride whom he never married and who still is a sad and strange one form in their different ways an extremely characteristic expression of Irish literature at that time during the 11th and 12th centuries the older Irish romances multiplied themselves and begot new ones in the most astonishing way the book of Leinster mentions 181 tales duly classified love tales battle tales tales of travel forays feasts visions tragedies etc what we have called doctors of literature devoted themselves henceforth more to prose than 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 14th and 15th centuries the Bardic schools which did so much for Irish poetry from the 6th century to the 17th the assisted 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 17th 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 library in the prose and verse that Irish literature was learning Keating's name is of first straight importance in the record for the 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 translation as he pointed out from the old Bardic tradition in Irish poetry after this coming the Bards threw away their superfluous prosody and wrote for the people and became poets indeed instead of the most ingenious of school men 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 most tuneful and idiosyncratic fashion quite its own let us listen again to Dr. Hyde on the point what the popular ballads of the folk had been like prior to the 17th century we have no means of knowing no scribe would demean his learned pen by committing them to the 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 through behind them the meters 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 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 his 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 other 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 Connaught is the best example that American readers could possibly have of the 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 Irish speaking Ireland made by Dr. Hyde Mr. Jeremiah Curtin and Mr. Larmini 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 the hands of the scholars and on the lips of its poets and if any reader should think the scholar 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. Eats and to the 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 end of section 37 recording by Mike Botez section 38 of library of the world's best literature ancient and modern volume 8 this is a LibriVox recording a LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Dion Giants Salt Lake City, Utah library of the world's best literature ancient and modern volume 8 section 38 Celtic literature by William Sharp and Ernest Rise 1 Irish part 2 of the three great cycles of Gaelic literature the third is the so called Asianic of this cycle Finn Finn, Fingal is the central hero the second great cycle is that which treats of the heroes of the Altonians that is the red branch of Ulster among this cycle Kukulain Kuchulin Kuhulin is the supreme type no living 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 Kukulain is the hero of the famous battle prop of the valor and torch of the chivalry of the Altonians 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 Kukulain affords a general idea of the first great heroic cycle its predecessor primarily with mythical or mythopoic beings and of primitive heroic life as reflected in that literature the excerpts selected are one the opening of the romance and two from the chapter telling how Kukulain won his knighthood from the coming of Kukulain the red branch feasted one night in their great hall at Imein Macha so vast was the hall that a man such as men are now standing in the center 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 Dothorba 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 plane 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 Rory 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 Lear 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 a vast murmur rose from the assembly for like distant thunder or the far off murmuring of agitated waters was the continuous hum of their blended conversation and laughter while ever and on cleaving the many tongued confusion up rose friendly voices clearer and stronger than battle trumpets when one hero challenged another to drink wishing him victory and success and his words ring round the hollow dome innumerable candles tall as spears illuminated the scene the eyes of the heroes sparkled and their faces white and ready beamed with festal mirth and their noble affection their yellow hair shone their banqueting attire white and scarlet glowed against the outer gloom their round brooches and mantelpins 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 extreity 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, magnesa, slender handsome and upright a canopy of bronze round as the bent sling of the sun god the long-handed, far-shooting son of Ethland 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 McRoy like a colossus the stars and clouds of night and his head and shoulders seen through the wide and high entrance of the dune 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 roaring upwards sat upon the rafters its eyes like burning fire it was the Moor Riga or great queen the far-striding, terrible daughter of Larmus 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 Gert round the temples with a golden fillet stood up and sang he sang how once a king of the Altonians to 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 brule 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 the faces of war and this training of steeds and careering of brazen chariots stained never with ought 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 Bonba Ireland holy in all her green borders of Lear 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 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 boasting about them about Rury whose name we bear and Macha the warrior as who brought hither bound the sons of Dothorba and made them rear and Kimbaeth son of Fienton 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 conquered 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 Emane 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 branch and they cried out that Fergus McRoy had spoken well then all at once on a sudden impulse they sang the battle song of the Altonians and shouted for the war so that the building quaked and rocked and in the hall of the weapons there was a clanger of falling shields and men died that night for extreme dread so mightily shouted the Altonians around their king and around Fergus on the morrow there was a great hasting of the red branch on the plain of the assemblies it was mayday morning and the sun shone brightly but at first through radiant showers the trees were putting forth young buds the wet grass sparkled and the day of the Altonians were exhibited that day their chariots and war horses ringed the plain all the horses heads were turned towards the center where were Concobar McNessa 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 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 ornaments 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 Eren who feared not beneath the sun mightiest among the mighty huge proud and unconquerable and loyal and affectionate beyond all others all of the blood of Err son of Molessius the clana rory of great renown rejoicing in their valor their splendor their peerless king Concobar had no crown no 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 leg son of the king of Gabra drive them hither for those are the horses of the chariot which shall be given this day to Cuckoo Lane then son of Sultom how in thy guileless breast thy heart leaped when thou hurtest the thundering of the great war car and the wild naying of the immortal steeds as they broke from the dark stable into the clear shining light of day and heard behind them raising wheels as in the days when they bore forth Macha and her marshal groom against the giants of old and mightily established in Iria the red branch of the Altonians soon they rushed to view from the rear of Emaine speeding forth impetuously out of the hollow sounding ways of the city and the echoing palaces to the open and behind them in the great car green and gold above the many twinkling wheels the charioteer with floating mantel Gert 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 main steed whale bellied broad-chested plain like flying foam under one silver yoke and a black lustrous tufty main 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 newth 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 charioteer 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 braided 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 nevertheless a deep purr like the purr of a tiger proceeded from the axle then the whole assembly lifted up their faces and shouted for Kukulain and he himself Kukulain the son of Sultom 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 gale shouted along with him for the Bokhanas and the Janiti and the wild people of the glens and the demons of the air roared around him when first the great warrior of the gale his battle arms in his hands stood equipped for war in his chariot before all the warriors of his tribe the kings of the clan and the people of the main matcha then to their sounded and the tech-brack the boom of shields and the clashing of swords and the cries and shouting of the Tuatha de Denon who dwelt there perpetually and Lu the long-handed the slayer of Baelor the destroyer of the fornaro the immortal the invisible the maker and the decorator of the firmament whose hound was the son and whose son the viewless wind thundered from heaven and bent his sling five hewed against the clouds and the son of the illimitable Lear in his mantle blue and green foam fringed passed through the assembly with a roar of far-off innumerable waters and the morriga stood in the mists with a foot on either side with the shout of a host so that the Altonians fell down like reaped grass with their faces to the earth on account of the presence of the morriga and on account of the omens and great signs the following poems from the ancient earth are taken from the Lyra Celtica an anthology of representative edited by Elizabeth A. Sharp the mystery of Amorgan I am the wind which breathes upon the sea 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 the wild boar in valor I am a salmon in the water I am a lake in the plane I am a word of science I am the point of the lance of battle I am the god who creates in the head that is of man the fire that is the thought who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain if not I who forces the ages of the moon if not I who teaches the place where couches the sun if not I the song of Pheon Mayday, delightful time how beautiful the color the blackbirds sing their full lay would that leg were here the cuckoos sing in constant strains how welcome is the noble brilliance 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 fare bow down grows sudden consternation attacks the signs the planets in their courses running exert and influence the sea is lulled to rest flowers cover the earth vision of a fair woman tell 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 rudder than the rose tender and tunefully sweet her tongue white as the foam a down 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 buds unfolding their beauty in early spring her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills and her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring in contemporary Celtic poetry no one surpasses Mr. W. B. Yates particularly in the recreation of that wonderful past with whose atmosphere his whole work is charged as an example of Mr. Yates narrative method with legendary themes we may quote some lines from his beautiful the wanderings of Oysin Ocean fled 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 side I mused on the chase with the Fenians and Bron Sealon, Lomere and never a song sang neof and over my fingertips came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist cold hair and now the warmth of sighs after the quiver of lips were we days long or hours long in writing when rolled in a grizzly piece an aisle lay level before us with dripping hazel and oak and we stood on a seas edge we saw not for wider than new washed fleece fled foam underneath us and round us a wandering and milky smoke and we rode on the plains of the seas edge the seas 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 finally here is one of Mr. Yates old songs re-sung the madness of King Gaul I sat on cushioned otterskin my word was law from if to emin and shook at Invar the hearts of the world troubling semen 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 Olaf said while he bent down his faded head he drives away the northern cold they will not hush a flutter round me the beach 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 stars fell on the pirates of the deep and hurled them in the gulf of sleep these hands won many a torque of gold they will not hush the leaves of flutter round me the beach 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 heat hand spongy then 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 of flutter round me the beach leaves old now I wander in the woods when summer glets the golden bees or in autumnal solitudes arise the leopard colored trees or when along the wintery strands the cormorant 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 the hairs run by me growing bold they will not hush the leaves of flutter round me the beach 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 bin 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 of flutter round me the beach leaves old I sing how when day's toil is done oracle shakes out her long dark hair that hides away the dying sun the 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 yulalu 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 they will flutter round me the beach leaves old End of section 38