It would seem that the Fomorians were then gathered further to the west, as well as in the northern isles. The Firbolgs had their central stronghold at Douin Cain, the Beautiful Eminence, which, tradition tells us, later bore the name of Tara. The chief among their chiefs was Eocaid, son of Ere, remembered as the last ruler of the Firbolgs. Every man of them was a hunter, used to spear and shield, and the skins of deer and the shaggy hides of wolves were their garments; their dwellings were built of well-fitted oak. To the chief, Eocaid, Erc's son, came rumor of the strangers near the Lakes of Erne; their ships, burned at their debarking, were not there to tell of the manner of their coming, and the De Danaans themselves bruited it abroad that they had come hither by magic, borne upon the wings of the wind. The chiefs of Tara gathered together, within their fort of earth crowned with a stockade, and took counsel how to meet this new adventure. After long consultation they chose one from among them, Sreng by name, a man of uncommon strength, a warrior tried and proven, who should go westward to find out more of the De Danaans.

Doubtless taking certain chosen companions with him, Sreng, the man of valor from among the Firbolgs, set forth on his quest. As in all forest-covered countries, the only pathways lay along the river-banks, or, in times of drought, through the sand or pebbles of their beds. Where the woods pressed closest upon the streams, the path wound from one bank to the other, crossing by fords or stepping-stones, or by a bridge of tree-trunks. So went Sreng, careful and keen-eyed, up the stream of the Blackwater, and thence to the Erne, and so drew near to the Plain of the Headland, where was the De Danaan camp. They, too, had word of his coming from their scouts and hunters, and sent forth Breas, one among their bravest, to meet the envoy.

They sighted each other and halted, each setting his shield in the earth, peering at his adversary above its rim. Then, reassured, they came together, and Breas first spoke to Sreng. After the first words they fell, warrior-like, to examining each other's weapons; Sreng saw that the two spears of Breas the De Danaan were thin, slender and long, and sharp-pointed, while his own were heavy, thick and point-less, but sharply rounded.

Here we have a note of reality, for spears of these two types are well known to us; those of Sreng were chisel-shaped, round-edged, socketed celts; the De Danaan lances were long and slender, like our spears. There are two materials also—a beautiful golden bronze, shining and gleaming in the sunlight, and a darker, ruddier metal, dull and heavy; and these darker spears have sockets for greatly thicker hafts. Both also carried swords, made, very likely, the one of golden, the other of dull, copper-colored bronze.

Then, putting these pleasant things aside, they turned to weightier matters, and Breas made a proposal for the De Danaan men. The island was large, the forests wide and full of game, the waters sweet and well-stocked with fish. Might they not share it between them, and join hands to keep out all future comers? Sreng could give no final answer; he could only put the matter before the Firbolg chiefs; so, exchanging spears in sign of friendship and for a token between them, they returned each to his own camp.

Sreng of the Firbolgs retraced his path some four-score miles among the central forests, and came to the Beautiful Eminence, where the Firbolgs had their settlement. Eocaid, Erc's son, their chieftain, called the lesser chiefs around him, and Sreng made full report of what he had seen and heard. The Firbolgs, pressed on by their fate, decided to refuse all terms with the De Danaans, but to give them battle, and drive them from the island. So they made ready, each man seeing to the straps of his shield, the burnishing of his thick sword and heavy spear. Eyes gleamed out beneath lowering brows all about the dwellings of Tara, and hot words were muttered of the coming fight. The dark faces of the Firbolgs were full of wrath.

Breas, returning to the camp of the Tuata De Danaan, gave such account of the fierceness and strength of Sreng, and the weight and sturdiness of his weapons, that the hearts of the golden-haired newcomers misgave them, and they drew away westward to the strip of land that lies between the lakes of Corrib and Mask. There, tradition tells us, they made an encampment upon the hill of Belgadan, near the stream that flows through caverns beneath the rocks from the northern to the southern lake. From their hill-top they had clear view of the plain stretching eastward, across which the Firbolg warriors must come; to the right hand and to the left were spread the great white waters of the lakes, stretching far away to the northern and southern verge of the sky. Islands dotted the lakes, and trees mirrored themselves in the waters. Behind them, to the westward, rose a square-topped mountain, crowned by a clear tarn; and, behind that, tier upon tier of hills, stretching dark and sombre along Lough Mask to the north, and spreading westward to the twelve crystal hills of Connemara.

Across the plain to the east, then called the Plain of Nia, but thereafter Mag Tuiread or Moytura, the Plain of the Pillars, lay the forests, and thence issued forth the hosts of the Firbolgs, encamping on the eastern verge of the open space. Nuada, the De Danaan king, once more sought a peaceful issue to their meeting, but Erc's son Eocaid refused all terms, and it was plain to all that they must fight.

It was midsummer. The air was warm about them, the lake-shores and the plain clothed in green of many gently blended shades. The sun shone down upon them, and the lakes mirrored the clear blue above. From their hill of encampment descended the De Danaans, with their long slender spears gleaming like bright gold, their swords of golden bronze firmly grasped, their left hands griping the thong of their shields. Golden-haired, with flowing tresses, they descended to the fight; what stately battle-song they chanted, what Powers they called on for a blessing, we cannot tell; nor in what terms the dark-browed Firbolgs answered them as they approached across the plain. All that day did the hosts surge together, spear launched against spear, and bronze sword clashing against shield; all that day and for three days more, and then the fate of the Firbolgs was decided. Great and dire was the slaughter of them, so that Erc's son Eocaid saw that all was lost. Withdrawing with a hundred of his own men about him, Eocaid was seeking water to quench his thirst, for the heat of the battle was upon him, when he was pursued by a greater band of the De Danaans, under the three sons of Nemed, one of their chieftains.

Eocaid and his bodyguard fled before Nemed's sons, making their way northeastward along the Moy river, under the shadow of the Mountains of Storms, now wrongly named Ox Mountains. They came at last to the great strand called Traig Eotaile, but now Ballysadare, the Cataract of the Oaks,—where the descending river is cloven into white terraces by the rocks, and the sea, retreating at low tide, leaves a world of wet sand glinting under the moonlight. At the very sea's margin a great battle was fought between the last king of the Firbolgs with his men, and the De Danaans under Nemed's sons; so relentless was the fight along the tideways that few remained to tell of it, for Erc's son Eocaid fell, but Nemed's three sons fell likewise, The three De Danaan brothers were buried at the western end of the strand, and the place was called The Gravestones of the Sons of Nemed, in their memory. The son of Erc was buried on the strand, where the waves lap along the shore, and his cairn of Traig Eotaile still stands by the water-side, last resting-place of the last ruler of the Firbolgs.

Meanwhile the fighting had gone on at Mag Tuiread by the lakes, till but three hundred of the Firbolgs were left, with Sreng, the fierce fighter, at their head. Sreng had gained enduring fame by meeting Nuada, the De Danaan king, in combat, and smiting him so that he clove the shield-rim and cut down deep into Nuada's shoulder, disabling him utterly from the battle. Seeing themselves quite outnumbered, therefore, the survivors of the Firbolgs with Sreng demanded single combat with De Danaan champions, but the victors offered them worthy terms of peace. The Firbolgs were to hold in lordship and freedom whichever they might choose of the five provinces; the conquerors were to have the rest.

Sreng looked around among his band of survivors,—a little band, though of great valor,—and he remembered the hosts of his people that had entered the battle three days before, but now lay strewn upon the plain; and thinking that they had done enough for valor he accepted the offered terms, choosing the Western Province for his men. In memory of him it was called Cuigead Sreing for generations, until Conn of the Five-Score Battles changed the name for his own, calling the province Connacht, as it is to this day.

It fared less well with the victors, and with their victory were sown seeds of future discord. For Nuada, the king, being grievously wounded, was in no state to rule, so that the chief power was given to Breas, first envoy of the De Danaans. Now Breas was only half De Danaan, half Fomor, and would not recognize the De Danaan rites or laws of hospitality, but was a very tyrannous and overbearing ruler, so that much evil came of his government. Yet for seven years he was endured, even though meat nor ale was dispensed at his banquets, according to De Danaan law.

Mutterings against Breas were rife among the chiefs and their followers when the bard Cairbre, whose mother Etan was also a maker of verses, came to the assembly of Breas. But the bard was shown little honor and given a mean lodging,—a room without fire or bed, with three dry loaves for his fare. The bard was full of resentment and set himself to make songs against Breas, so that all men repeated his verses, and the name of Breas fell into contempt. All men's minds were enkindled by the bard, and they drove Breas forth from the chieftainship. Breas fled to his Fomor kindred in the isles, with his heart full of anger and revenge against the De Danaans.

He sought help of his kindred, and their design was told to the Fomorian chieftains—to Balor of the Evil Eye, and to Indec, son of De Domnand, chiefs of the Isles. These two leaders gathered ships from all the harbors and settlements of the Fomorians, from the Hebrides, the Shetlands, and far-distant Norway, so that their fleet was thick as gulls above a shoal of fish along the north shores of Erin.

Coming down from the northern isles, they sighted the coast of Erin, the peaks of the northwestern mountains rising purple towards the clouds, with white seas foaming around them. Past towering headlands they sailed; then, drawing in towards the shore, they crept under the great cliffs of Slieve League, that rose like a many-colored wall from the sea to the sky—so high that the great eagles on their summits were but specks seen from beneath, so high that the ships below seemed like sea-shells to those who watched them from above. With the wall of the cliffs on their left hand, and the lesser headlands and hills of Sligo on their right, they came to that same strand of Ballysadare, the Cataract of the Oaks, where the last of the Firbolgs fell. Drawing their long ships up on the beach, with furled sail and oars drawn in, they debarked their army on the shore. It was a landing of ill-omen for the Fomorians, that landing beside the cairn of Eocaid; a landing of ill-omen for Indec, son of De Domnand, and for Balor of the Evil Eye.

It was the fall of the leaf when they came; the winds ran crying through the forests, tearing the leaves and branches from the oaks, and mourning among the pines of the uplands. The sea was gray as a gull's back, with dark shadows under the cliffs and white tresses of foam along the headlands. At evening a cold wind brought the rain beating in from the ocean. Thus the Fomorians landed at the Cataract of the Oaks, and marched inland to the plain now called Tirerril in Sligo. The murky sky spread over the black and withered waste of the plain, hemmed in with gloomy hills, wild rocks and ravines, and with all the northern horizon broken by distant mountains. Here Indec and Balor, and Breas the cause of their coming, fixed their camp. They sent a message of defiance to the De Danaans, challenging them to fight or surrender. The De Danaans heard the challenge and made ready to fight.

Nuada, now called the chieftain of the Silver Arm, because the mischief wrought by Sreng's blow on his shoulder had been hidden by a silver casing, was once more ruler since Breas had been driven out. Besides Nuada, these were De Danaan chieftains: Dagda, the Mighty; Lug, son of Cian, son of Diancect, surnamed Lamfada, the Long Armed; Ogma, of the Sunlike Face; and Angus, the Young. They summoned the workers in bronze and the armorers, and bid them prepare sword and spear for battle, charging the makers of spear-haft and shield to perfect their work. The heralds also were ready to proclaim the rank of the warriors, and those skilled in healing herbs stood prepared to succor the wounded. The bards were there also to arouse valor and ardor with their songs.

Then marching westward to the plain of the battle among the hills, they set their camp and advanced upon the Fomorians. Each man had two spears bound with a thong to draw them back after the cast, with a shield to ward off blows, and a broad-bladed sword of bronze for close combat. With war-chants and invocations the two hosts met. The spears, well poised and leveled, clove the air, hissing between them, and under the weight of the spear-heads and their sharp points many in both hosts fell. There were cries of the wounded now, mingled with battle-songs, and hoarse shouting for vengeance among those whose sons and brothers and sworn friends fell. Another cast of the spears, seaming the air between as the hosts closed in, and they fell on each other with their swords, shields upraised and gold-bronze sword-points darting beneath like the tongues of serpents. They cut and thrust, each with his eyes fixed on the fierce eyes of his foe.

They fought on the day of the Spirits, now the Eve of All Saints; the Fomorians were routed, and their chieftains slain. But of the De Danaans, Nuada, once wounded by Sreng of the Firbolgs, now fell by the hand of Balor; yet Balor also fell, slain by Lug, his own daughter's son.

Thus was the might of the Fomorians broken, and the De Danaans ruled unopposed, their power and the works of their hands spreading throughout the length and breadth of the land.

Many monuments are accredited to them by tradition, but greatest and most wonderful are the pyramids of stone at Brugh on the Boyne. Some nine miles from the sandy seashore, where the Boyne loses itself in the waves, there is a broad tongue of meadowland, shut in on three sides southward by the Boyne, and to the northeast cut off by a lesser stream that joins it. This remote and quiet headland, very famous in the annals, was in old days so surrounded by woods that it was like a quiet glade in the forest rimmed by the clear waters of the Boyne. The Mourne Mountains to the north and the lesser summits on the southern sky-line were hidden by the trees. The forest wall encircled the green meadowland, and the river fringed with blue forget-me-nots.

In this quiet spot was the sacred place of the De Danaans, and three great pyramids of stone, a mile apart along the river, mark their three chief sanctuaries. The central is the greatest; two hundred thousand tons of stone heaped up, within a circular wall of stone, itself surrounded by a great outer circle of standing stones, thirty in number, like gray sentinels guarding the shrine. In the very heart of the pyramid, hushed in perpetual stillness and peace, is the inmost sanctuary, a chamber formed like a cross, domed with a lofty roof, and adorned with mysterious tracings on the rocks. Shrines like this are found in many lands, whether within the heart of the pyramids of Egypt or in the recesses of India's hills; and in all lands they have the same purpose. They are secret and holy sanctuaries, guarded well from all outward influence, where, in the mystic solitude, the valiant and great among the living may commune with the spirits of the mighty dead. The dead, though hidden, are not passed away; their souls are in perpetual nearness to ours. If we enter deep within ourselves, to the remote shrine of the heart, as they entered that secluded shrine, we may find the mysterious threshold where their world and our world meet.

In the gloom and silence of those pyramid-chambers, the De Danaans thus sought the souls of their mighty ones—the Dagda, surnamed the Mighty, and Lug the Long-Armed, and Ogma of the Sunlike Face, and Angus the Young. From these luminous guardians they sought the inbreathing of wisdom, drawing into themselves the might of these mightier ones, and rising toward the power of their immortal world. And to these sacred recesses they brought the ashes of their mighty dead, as a token that they, too, had passed through the secret gateway to the Land of the Ever Young.

Some thirty miles to the west of Brugh, on the Boyne, a low range of hills rises from the central plain, now bearing the name of Slieve na Calliagh, the Witch's Hill. In the days of the great forest this was the first large open space to the west coming from Brugh, and, like it, a quiet and remote refuge among the woods. On the hillsides of Slieve na Calliagh are other pyramids of stone, in all things like those of Brugh, and with the same chambered sanctuaries, but of lesser size; belonging, perhaps, to a later age, when the De Danaans were no longer supreme in the land, but took their place beside newcome invaders. These lesser shrines were also sacred places, doorways to the hidden world, entrance-gates to the Land of the Ever Young. There also was beheld the vision of the radiant departed; there also were fonts of baptism, basins wrought of granite brought hither from the distant hills of Mourne or Wicklow. As in all lands, these fonts were used in the consecration of the new birth, from which man rises conscious of his immortality.

In harmony with this faith of theirs, our present tradition sees in the De Danaans a still haunting impalpable presence, a race invisible yet real, dwelling even now among our hills and valleys. When the life of the visible world is hushed, they say, there is another life in the hidden, where the Dagda Mor and Ogma and Lug and Angus still guard the De Danaan hosts. The radiance of their nearness is all through the land, like the radiance of the sun hidden behind storm-clouds, glimmering through the veil.



In the chambers of those pyramid-shrines are still traces of the material presence of the De Danaans; not only their baptismal fonts, but more earthly things—ornaments, beads of glass and amber, and combs with which they combed their golden locks. These amber beads, like so many things in the De Danaan history, call us to far northern lands by the Baltic, whence in all likelihood the De Danaans came; for in those Baltic lands we find just such pyramid shrines as those at Brugh and on the hillsides of Slieve na Calliagh, and their ornaments are the same, and the fashion of their spear-heads and shields. The plan of the Danish pyramid of Uby is like the pyramids of Newgrange and Nowth and Dowth by the Boyne, and the carvings on King Gorm's stone by the Baltic are like the carvings of stones in our own island. On the Baltic shores, too, of most ancient date and belonging to forgotten times, are still found fragments and even perfect hulls of just such long ships as were needed for the Danaans' coming, like the ships they burnt along the reaches of the Foyle.

By the Baltic, too, and nowhere else, were there races with hair yellow as their own amber, or, as our island bards say, "so bright that the new-molten gold was not brighter; yellow as the yellow flag-lilies along the verges of the rivers." Therefore, in character of race, in face and feature, in color and complexion, in the form and make of sword and spear and shield, in their knowledge of ships and the paths of the sea, as in their ornaments and decorative art, and in those majestic pyramids and shrines where they sought mystic wisdom, and whither they carried the ashes of their dead, as to a place of sacred rest—in all these the life of the De Danaans speaks of the Baltic shores and the ancient race of golden-haired heroes who dwelt there. The honoring of bards, the heraldic keeping of traditions and the names of ancestors, also speak of the same home; and with a college of heraldic bards, well-ordered and holding due rank and honor, we can well see how the stories of their past have come down even to our days, lingering among our hills and valleys, as the De Danaan themselves linger, hidden yet not departed.

The traditional time of their coming, too, agrees well with all we know. Without bronze tools they could not have carved the beautifully adorned stones that are built into the pyramids by the Boyne; yet there is a certain early ruggedness about these stones that falls far short of the perfection of later times. Early in the bronze age, therefore, they must be placed; and the early bronze age, wherever its remoteness can be measured, as in the Swiss lakes or the peat-mosses of Denmark, cannot be less than four thousand years ago, thus well agreeing with our De Danaan tradition. We are, therefore, led to believe that the tale told by these traditions is in the main a true one; that the races recorded by them came in the recorded order; that their places of landing are faithfully remembered; that all traditions pointing to their earlier homes are worthy of belief, and in full accord with all our other knowledge.



V.

EMAIN OF MACA.

B.C. 50—A.D. 50.

The battles of Southern and Northern Moytura gave the De Danaans sway over the island. After they had ruled for many centuries, they in their turn were subjected to invasion, as the Firbolg and Fomorian had been before them. The newcomers were the Sons of Milid, and their former home was either Gaul or Spain. But whether from Gaul or Spain, the sons of Milid were of undoubted Gaelic race, in every feature of character and complexion resembling the continental Gauls.

We must remember that, in the centuries before the northward spread of Rome, the Gauls were the great central European power. Twenty-six hundred years ago their earlier tribal life was consolidated into a stable empire under Ambigatos; Galicia in Eastern Austria and Galicia in Western Spain mark their extreme borders towards the rising and setting sun.

Several centuries before the days of Ambigatos, in the older period of tribal confederation, was the coming of the Gaelic Sons of Milid to Ireland. Tradition places the date between three and four thousand years ago. Yet even after that long interval of isolation the resemblance between the Irish and continental Gaels is perfect; they are tall, solidly built, rather inclined to stoutness; they are fair-skinned, or even florid, easily browned by sun and wind. Their eyes are gray, greenish or hazel, not clear blue, like the eyes of the Baltic race; and though fair-haired, they are easily distinguished from the golden-haired Norsemen. Such are the descendants of the Sons of Milid. Coming from Gaul or Spain, the Sons of Milid landed in one of the great fiords that penetrate between the mountains of Kerry—long after so named from the descendants of Ciar. These same fiords between the hills have been the halting-place of continental invaders for ages; hardly a century has passed since the last landing there of continental soldiers; there was another invasion a century before that, and yet another a hundred years earlier. But the Sons of Milid showed the way. They may have come by Bantry Bay or the Kenmare River or Dingle Bay; more probably the last, for tradition still points to the battlefield where they were opposed, on the hills of Slieve Mish, above the Dingle fiord.

But wherever they debarked on that southwestern coast they found a land warm and winning as the south they had left behind—a land of ever-green woods, yew and arbutus mingling with beech and oak and fir; rich southern heaths carpeting the hillsides, and a soft drapery of ferns upon the rocks. There were red masses of overhanging mountain, but in the valleys, sheltered and sun-warmed, they found a refuge like the Isles of the Blest. The Atlantic, surging in great blue rollers, brought the warmth of tropical seas, and a rich and vivid growth through all the glens and vales responded to the sun's caress.

The De Danaans must ere this have spread through all of the island, except the western province assigned to the Firbolgs; for we find them opposing,—but vainly opposing,—the Sons of Milid, at the very place of their landing. Here again we find the old tradition verified; for at the spot recorded of old by the bards and heralds, among the hills by the pass that leads from Dingle to Tralee Bay, numberless arrow-heads have been gathered, the gleanings after a great combat. The De Danaans fought with sword and spear, but, unless they had added to their weapons since the days of Breas and Sreng, they did not shoot with the bow; this was, perhaps, the cause of their defeat, for the De Danaans were defeated among the hills on that long headland.

From their battlefield they could see the sea on either hand, stretching far inland northward and southward; across these arms of the sea rose other headlands, more distant, the armies of hills along them fading from green to purple, from purple to clear blue. But the De Danaans had burned their boats; they sought refuge rather by land, retreating northward till they came to the shelter of the great central woods. The Sons of Milid pursued them, and, overtaking them at Tailten on the Blackwater, some ten miles northwest of Tara, they fought another battle; after it, the supremacy of the De Danaans definitely passed away.

Yet we have no reason to believe that, any more than the Fomorians or Firbolgs, the De Danaans ceased to fill their own place in the land. They seem, indeed, to have been preponderant in the north, and in all likelihood they hold their own there even now; for every addition to our knowledge shows us more and more how tenacious is the life of races, how firmly they cling to their earliest dwellings. And though we read of races perishing before invaders, this is the mere boasting of conquerors; more often the newcomers are absorbed among the earlier race, and nothing distinctive remains of them but a name. We have abundant evidence to show that at the present day, as throughout the last three thousand years, the four races we have described continue to make up the bulk of our population, and pure types of each still linger unblended in their most ancient seats; for, though races mingle, they do not thereby lose their own character. The law is rather that the type of one or other will come out clear in their descendants, all undefined forms tending to disappear.

Nor did any subsequent invasion add new elements; for as all northern Europe is peopled by the same few types, every newcomer,—whether from Norway, Denmark, Britain or Continental Europe,—but reinforced one of these earlier races. Yet even where the ethnical elements are alike, there seems to be a difference of destiny and promise—as if the very land itself brooded over its children, transforming them and molding them to a larger purpose. The spiritual life of races goes far deeper than their ethnic history.

It would seem that with the coming of the Sons of Milid the destiny of Ireland was rounded and completed; from that time onward, for more than two thousand years, was a period of uniform growth and settled life and ideals; a period whose history and achievements we are only beginning to understand. At the beginning of that long epoch of settled life the art of working gold was developed and perfected; and we have abundance of beautiful gold-work from remote times, of such fine design and execution that there is nothing in the world to equal it. The modern work of countries where gold is found in quantities is commonplace, vulgar and inartistic, when compared with the work of the old Irish period. Torques, or twisted ribbons of gold, of varying size and shape, were worn as diadems, collars, or even belts; crescent bands of finely embossed sheet-gold were worn above the forehead; brooches and pins of most delicate and imaginative workmanship were used to catch together the folds of richly colored cloaks, and rings and bracelets were of not less various and exquisite forms.

We are at no loss to understand the abundance of our old goldsmiths' work when we know that even now, after being worked for centuries, the Wicklow gold-mines have an average yearly yield of some five hundred ounces, found, for the most part, in nuggets in the beds of streams flowing into the two Avons. One mountain torrent bears the name of Gold Mines River at the present day, showing the unbroken presence of the yellow metal from the time of its first discovery, over three thousand years ago. It seems probable that a liberal alloy of gold gave the golden bronze its peculiar excellence and beauty; for so rich is the lustre, so fine the color of many of our bronze axes and spears, that they are hardly less splendid than weapons of pure gold. From the perfect design and workmanship of these things of gold and bronze, more than from any other source, we gain an insight into the high culture and skill in the arts which marked that most distinctively Irish period, lasting, as we have seen, more than two thousand years.

Early in this same epoch we find traditions of the clearing of forests, the sowing of cornfields, the skill of dyers in seven colors, earliest of which were purple, blue and green. Wells were dug to insure an easily accessible supply of pure water, so that we begin to think of a settled population dwelling among fields of golden grain, pasturing their cattle in rich meadows, and depending less on the deer and wild oxen of the forest, the salmon of lake and river, and the abundant fish along the shores.

Tradition speaks persistently of bards, heralds, poets and poetesses; of music and song; of cordial and generous social life; and to the presence of these bards, like the skalds of the Northmen, we owe pictures, even now full of life and color and movement, of those days of long ago.

At a period rather more than two thousand years ago, a warrior-queen, Maca by name, founded a great fort and citadel at Emain, some two miles west of Armagh, in the undulating country of green hills and meadows to the south of Lough Neagh. The ramparts and earthworks of that ancient fortress can still be traced, and we can follow and verify what the ancient bards told of the greatness of the stronghold of Maca. The plans of all forts of that time seem to have been much the same—a wide ring of earthwork, with a deep moat, guarded them, and a stockade of oak stakes rose above the earthwork, behind which the defenders stood, firing volleys of arrows at the attacking host. Within this outer circle of defence there was almost always a central stronghold, raised on a great mound of earth; and this was the dwelling of the chief, provincial ruler, or king. Lesser mounds upheld the houses of lesser chiefs, and all alike seem to have been built of oak, with plank roofs. Safe storehouses of stone were often sunk underground, beneath the chief's dwelling. In the fort of Emain, as in the great fort of Tara in the Boyne Valley, there was a banqueting-hall for the warriors, and the bards thus describe one of these in the days of its glory: "The banquet-hall had twelve divisions in each wing, with tables and passages round them; there were sixteen attendants on each side, eight for the star-watchers, the historians and the scribes, in the rear of the hall, and two to each table at the door,—a hundred guests in all; two oxen, two sheep and two hogs were divided equally on each side at each meal. Beautiful was the appearance of the king in that assembly—flowing, slightly curling golden hair upon him; a red buckler with stars and beasts wrought of gold and fastenings of silver upon him; a crimson cloak in wide descending folds upon him, fastened at his breast by a golden brooch set with precious stones; a neck-torque of gold around his neck; a white shirt with a full collar, and intertwined with threads of gold, upon him; a girdle of gold inlaid with precious stones around him; two wonderful shoes of gold with runings of gold upon him; two spears with golden sockets in his hand."

We are the more disposed to trust the fidelity of the picture, since the foundations of the Tara banquet-hall are to be clearly traced to this day—an oblong earthwork over seven hundred feet long by ninety wide, with the twelve doors still distinctly marked; as for the brooches and torques of gold, some we have surpass in magnificence anything here described, and their artistic beauty is eloquent of the refinement of spirit that conceived and the skill that fashioned them. Spear-heads, too, are of beautiful bronze-gold, with tracings round the socket of great excellence and charm.



For a picture of the life of that age, we cannot do better than return to Emain of Maca, telling the story of one famous generation of warriors and fair women who loved and fought there two thousand years ago. The ideal of beauty was still the golden hair and blue eyes of the De Danaans, and we cannot doubt that their race persisted side by side with the Sons of Milid, retaining a certain predominance in the north and northeast of the island, the first landing-place of the De Danaan invaders. Of this mingled race was the great Rudraige, from whom the most famous rulers of Emain descended. Ros was the son of Rudraige, and from Roeg and Cass, the sons of Ros, came the princes Fergus and Factna. Factna, son of Cass, wedded the beautiful Nessa, and from their union sprang Concobar, the great hero and ruler of Ulster—in those days named Ulad, and the dwellers there the Ulaid. Factna died while Concobar was yet a boy; and Nessa, left desolate, was yet so beautiful in her sadness that Fergus became her slave, and sued for her favor, though himself a king whose favors others sued. Nessa's heart was wholly with her son, her life wrapt up in his. She answered, therefore, that she would renounce her mourning and give her widowed hand to Fergus the king, if the king, on his part, would promise that Nessa's son Concobar should succeed him, rather than the children of Fergus. Full of longing, and held in thrall by her beauty, Fergus promised; and this promise was the beginning of many calamities, for Nessa, the queen, feeling her sway over Fergus, and full of ambition for her child, won a promise from Fergus that the youth should sit beside him on the throne, hearing all pleadings and disputes, and learning the art of ruling. But the spirit of Concobar was subtle and strong and masterful, and he quickly took the greater place in the councils of the Ulaid, until Nessa, still confident in her charm, took a promise from Fergus that Concobar should reign for one year.

Fergus, great-hearted warrior, but tender and gentle and fond of feasts and merrymaking, was very willing to lift the cares of rule from his shoulders to the younger shoulders of Nessa's son, and the one year thus granted became many years, so that Fergus never again mounted his throne. Yet for the love he bore to Nessa, Fergus willingly admitted his stepson's rule, and remained faithfully upholding him, ever merry at the banquets, and leading the martial sports and exercises of the youths, the sons of chieftains, at the court. Thus Concobar, son of Nessa, came to be ruler over the great fort of Emain, with its citadel, its earthworks and outer forts, its strong stockade and moat; ruler of these, and of the chiefs of the Ulaid, and chief commander of all the fighting-men that followed them. To him came the tribute of cattle and horses, of scarlet cloaks and dyed fabrics, purple and blue and green, and the beryls and emeralds from the mountains of Mourne where the sea thunders in the caves, near the great fort of Rudraige. Fergus was lord only of the banqueting-hall and of the merrymakings of the young chiefs; but in all else the will of Concobar was supreme and his word was law.

It happened that before this a child had been born, a girl golden-haired and with blue eyes, of whom the Druids had foretold many dark and terrible things. That the evil might not be wrought through this child of sad destiny, the king had from her earliest childhood kept her securely hidden in a lonely fort, and there Deirdre grew in solitude, daily increasing in beauty and winsomeness. She so won the love of those set in guard over her that they relaxed something of the strictness of their watch, letting her wander a little in the meadows and the verges of the woods, gathering flowers, and watching the life of birds and wild things there.

Among the chieftains of the court of Emain was one Usnac, of whom were three sons, with Naisi strongest and handsomest of the three. Naisi was dark, with black locks hanging upon his shoulders and dark, gleaming eyes; and so strongly is unlike drawn to unlike that golden-haired Deirdre, seeing him in one of her wanderings, felt her heart go forth to him utterly. Falling into talk with him, they exchanged promises of enduring love. Thus the heart of Naisi went to Deirdre, as hers had gone to him, so that all things were changed for them, growing radiant with tremulous hope and wistful with longing. Yet the fate that lay upon Deirdre was heavy, and all men dreaded it but Naisi; so that even his brothers, the sons of Usnac, feared greatly and would have dissuaded him from giving his life to the ill-fated one. But Naisi would not be dissuaded; so they met secretly many times, in the twilight at the verge of the wood, Deirdre's golden hair catching the last gleam of sunlight and holding it long into the darkness, while the black locks of Naisi, even ere sunset, foreshadowed the coming night. In their hearts it was not otherwise; for Deirdre, full of wonder at the change that had come over her, at the song of the birds that echoed ever around her even in her dreams, at the radiance of the flowers and trees, the sunshine on the waters of the river, the vivid gladness over all,—Deirdre knew nothing of the dread doom that was upon her, and was all joy and wonderment at the meetings with her lover, full of fancies and tender words and shy caresses; but Naisi, who knew well the fate that overshadowed them like a black cloud above a cliff of the sea, strove to be glad and show a bold face to his mistress, though his heart many a time grew cold within him, thinking on what had befallen and what might befall.

For the old foretelling of the star-watchers was not the only doom laid upon Deirdre. Concobar the king, stern and masterful, crafty and secret in counsel though swift as an eagle to slay,—Concobar the king had watched Deirdre in her captivity, ever unseen of her, and his heart had been moved by the fair softness of her skin, the glow of her cheek, the brightness of her eyes and hair; so that the king had steadfastly determined in his mind that Deirdre should be his, in scorn of all prophecies and warnings; that her beauty should be for him alone. This the king had determined; and it was known to Naisi the son of Usnac. It was known to him also that what Concobar the king determined, he steadfastly carried out; for the will of Concobar was strong and masterful over all around him.

Therefore at their meetings two clouds lay upon the heart of Naisi: the presentment of the king's power and anger, and his relentless hand pursuing through the night, and the darker dread of the sightless doom pronounced of old at the birth of Deirdre, of which the will of Concobar was but the tool. There was gloom in his eyes and silence on his lips and a secret dread in his heart. Deirdre wondered at it, her own heart being so full of gladness, her eyes sparkling, and endearing words ever ready on her lips. Deirdre wondered, yet found a new delight and wonderment in the silence of Naisi, and the gloomy lightning in his eyes, as being the more contrasted with herself, and therefore the more to be beloved.

Yet the time came when Naisi determined to tell her all and risk the worst that fate could do against them, finding death with her greatly better than life without her. Yet death with her was not to be granted to him. Deirdre heard, wondering and trembling, and Naisi must tell her the tale many times before she understood,—so utter had been her solitude and so perfect was yet her ignorance of all things beyond the fort where she was captive, and of all the doings of men. Concobar was not even a name to her, and she knew nothing of his power or the stronghold of Emain, the armies of the Ulaid, or the tributes of gold and cattle and horses. Spears and swords and those who wielded them were not even dreams to her until the coming of Naisi, when his gloom blended with her sunshine.

Talking long through the twilight, until the red gold of the west was dulled to bronze over the hills, and the bronze tarnished and darkened with the coming of the eastern stars, they planned together what they should do; and, the heart of Deirdre at last growing resolute, they made their way through the night to where the brothers of Naisi were, and all fled together towards the northern sea. Amongst the fishermen of the north they found those who were willing to carry them beyond the reach of Concobar's anger, and with a southerly breeze set sail for the distant headlands of Scotland, that they had seen from the cliff-top lying like blue clouds along the horizon. They set forth early in the morning, as the sun came up out of the east over blue Alban capes, and when the sun went down it reddened the dark rocks of Islay; so that, making for the shore, they camped that night under the Islay Hills. On their setting forth again, the sea was like a wild grey lake between Jura on the left and the long headland of Cantyre on their right; and thus they sped forward between long ranks of gloomy hills, growing ever nearer them on both sides, till they passed through the Sound of Jura and rounded into Loch Etive.

There they made the land, drawing up under the shadow of dark hills, and there they dwelt for many a day. Very familiar to Deirdre, though at first strange and wild and terrible beyond words, grew that vast amphitheatre of hills in their eternal grayness, with the long Loch stretching down like a horn through their midst. Very familiar to inland-bred Deirdre, though at first strange and fearful, grew the gray surges of the incoming tides, the white foam of the waves seething along boulders of granite, and the long arms of seaweed waving as she peered downward into the clear green water. Very familiar to Deirdre, though at first strange and confusing, grew the arms of Naisi around her in the darkness and his warm lips on her cheek. Happy were those wild days in the great glen of Etive, and dear did the sons of Usnac grow to her heart, loved as brothers by her who never knew a brother, or the gentleness of a mother's watching, or the solace of dear kindred.

The sons of Usnac sped forth before dawn among the hills from their green dwelling roofed with pine branches and reeds and moss; early they went forth to track the deer, pursuing them with their arrows, till the red flank of the buck was laced with brighter red. One of the three ever stayed behind with Deirdre, whether it was Naisi himself, or Alny, or Ardan, and the two thus remaining were like children playing together, whether gathering sticks and dry rushes and long spears of withered grass for their fire, or wandering by the white curling waves, or sending flat pebbles skipping over the wavelets; and the sound of their laughter many a time echoed along the Loch's green waters and up the hills, till the does peered and wondered from among the heather, and the heron, startled at his fishing, flew upwards croaking, with flapping wings. Happy were those days for Deirdre, and with utter sadness she looked back to them afterwards, when the doom foretold had fallen upon her. Happy sped the days, till once in the gray of the dawn, while Deirdre was resting in their green refuge with Naisi, she cried out in her sleep and waked, telling him, weeping, that she had heard the voice of the bird of doom in her dreams.

The voice she heard was indeed the voice of their doom; yet it was a cheerful voice, full of friendly gladness; the voice of Fergus, son of Roeg, former King of Emain, and now come to Loch Etive as messenger of Concobar, Fergus came up from the sea-beach towards the answering shout of the sons of Usnac, and glad greetings passed among them at the door of their refuge. Fergus looked long in admiration at the blue eyes and golden locks, the clear skin and gentle breast of Deirdre, nor wondered, as he looked, that Naisi had dared fate to possess her. Then Fergus told the story of his coming; how they had discovered the flight of the sons of Usnac from Emain, and how terrible was the black anger of Concobar; what passionate fire had gleamed in his eyes as he tossed the golden locks back from his shoulders and grasped the haft of his spear, and pledged himself to be avenged on Naisi and all his kin, swearing that he would have Deirdre back again.

Thus Fergus told the tale, laughingly, as at a danger that was past, a storm-cloud that had lost its arrows of white hail and was no longer fearful. For, he said, Concobar had forgotten his anger, had promised a truce to the sons of Usnac, and most of all to Naisi, and had bidden them return as his guests to Emain of Maca, where Deirdre should dwell happy with her beloved. The comrades of Fergus by this time had tied their boat and come up from the shore, and the sons of Usnac were ready to depart. Yet Deirdre's heart misgave her as she thought of the days among those purple hills and granite rocks, by the long green water of the Loch, and her clear-seeing soul spoke words of doom for them all: words soon to be fulfilled. Amongst the comrades of Fergus were certain of the adherents of Concobar, treacherous as he; for he had no thought of pardoning the sons of Usnac, nor any intent but to draw Deirdre back within his reach; the image of her bright eyes and the redness of her lips, and her soft breast and shining hair was ever before him, and his heart gnawed within him for longing and the bitterness of desire.

Therefore he had designed this embassy; and Fergus, believing all things and trusting all things, had gladly undertaken to be the messenger of forgiveness; fated, instead, to be the instrument of betrayal. So they turned their faces homewards towards Emain, Deirdre full of desponding, as one whose day of grace is past. They set sail again through the long Sound of Jura, with the islands now on their right hand and the gray hills of Cantyre on their left. So they passed Jura, and later Islay, and came at last under the cliffs of Rathlin and the white Antrim headlands. Deirdre's heart never lightened, nor did laughter play about her lips or in her eyes through all the time of her journey, but sadness lay ever upon her, like the heavy darkness of a winter's night, when a storm is gathering out of the West. But Fergus made merry, rejoicing at the reconciling; bidden to a treacherous banquet by the partisans of Concobar, his heart never misgave him, but giving the charge of Deirdre and the sons of Usnac to his sons, he went to the banquet, delaying long in carousing and singing, while Deirdre and the three brothers were carried southwards to Emain. There the treachery plotted against them was carried out, as they sat in the banquet-hall; for Concobar's men brought against them the power of cowardly flames, setting fire to the hall, and slaying the sons of Usnac as they hurried forth from under the burning roof.

One of the sons of Fergus shamefully betrayed them, bought by the gold and promises of Concobar, but the other bravely fell, fighting back to back with one of the sons of Usnac, when they fell overpowered by the warriors of Concobar. Thus was the doom of Deirdre consummated, her lover treacherously done to death, and she herself condemned to bear the hated caress of Concobar, thinking ever of those other lips, in the days of her joy among the northern hills. This is the lament of Deirdre for Usnac's sons:

The lions of the hill are gone, And I am left alone, alone; Dig the grave both wide and deep, For I am sick and fain would sleep!

The falcons of the wood are flown, And I am left alone, alone; Dig the grave both deep and wide, And let us slumber side by side.

Lay their spears and bucklers bright By the warriors' sides aright; Many a day the three before me On their linked bucklers bore me.

Dig the grave both wide and deep, Sick I am and fain would sleep. Dig the grave both deep and wide, And let us slumber side by side.



VI.

CUCULAIN THE HERO.

B.C. 50—A.D. 50.

The treacherous death of Naisi and his brothers Ardan and Alny, and her own bereavement and misery, were not the end of the doom pronounced at her birth for Deirdre, but rather the beginning. Yet the burden of the evils that followed fell on Concobar and his lands and his warriors.

For Fergus, son of Roeg, former king over Emain, who had stayed behind his charges feasting and banqueting, came presently to Emain, fearing nothing and thinking no evil, but still warm with the reconciliation that he had accomplished; and, coming to Emain of Maca, found the sons of Usnac dead, with the sods still soft on their graves, and his own son also dead, Deirdre in the hands of Concobar, and the plighted word of Fergus and his generous pledge of safety most traitorously and basely broken; broken by Concobar, whom he himself had guarded and set upon the throne.

Fergus changed from gladness to fierce wrath, and his countenance was altered with anger, as he uttered his bitter indignation against Concobar to the warriors and heroes of Emain and the men of Ulad. The warriors were parted in two by his words, swaying to the right and to the left, as tall wheat sways before one who passes through it. For some of them sided with Fergus, saying that he had done great wrong to put Concobar on the throne, and that even now he should cast him down again, for the baseness and treachery of his deed; but others took Concobar's part, saying that the first betraying was Naisi's, who stole away Deirdre,—the hostage, as it were, of evil doom, so that he drew the doom upon himself. They further said that Concobar was chief and ruler among them, the strong and masterful leader, able to uphold their cause amongst men. So indeed it befell, for the sedition of Fergus and his fight to avenge his wrong upon Concobar failed, so that he fled defeated to Meave, Queen of Connacht, at her stronghold amid the lakes whence issues forth the Shannon.



Meave, whose power and genius overtopped her lord Ailill, received the exiled king gladly, and put many honors upon him, holding him as the pillar of her army, with the two thousand men of the Ulaid who came with him;—those who had fought for him against the party of Concobar. At Cruacan, on the hillside, with the lakes of the Great River all around them, with the sun setting red behind the Curlew hills, with green meadows and beech-woods to gladden them, Meave and Ailill kept their court, and thence they sent many forays against Emain of Maca and Concobar, with Fergus the fallen king ever raging in the van, and, for the wrong that was done him, working measureless wrong on his own kingdom and the kingdom of his fathers.

After many a foray had gone forth against Ulad, crossing the level plains, it befell that Meave and Ailill her lord disputed between them as to which had the greatest wealth; nor would either yield until their most precious possessions had been brought and matched the one against the other. Their jewels of gold, wonderfully wrought, and set with emeralds and beryls and red carbuncles, were brought forth, their crescents for the brow, with hammered tracery upon them, their necklets and torques, like twisted ribbons of gold, their bracelets and arm-rings set with gold, their gems of silver and all their adornments, cloaks of scarlet and blue and purple, were all brought, and no advantage in the one was found over the other. Their battle-steeds also were brought, their horses for chariots; and likewise their herds of lowing wealth, their sheep with soft fleeces. When the cattle were driven up before them, it was found that among the herds of Ailill was one bull, matchless, with white horns shining and polished; and equal to this bull was none among the herds of the queen. She would not admit her lord's advantage, but sent forthwith to seek where another bull like the bull of Ailill might be found, and tidings were brought to her of the brown bull of Cuailgne,—of Cuailgne named after a chief of the Sons of Milid, fallen ages ago in the pursuit of the De Danaans, when the De Danaans retreated before the Sons of Milid from the southern headland of Slieve Mish to the ford at green Tailten by the Boyne, and thence further northwards to where Cuailgne of the Sons of Milid was killed. At that same place had grown up a dwelling with a fortress, and there was the brown bull that Meave heard the report of. She sent, therefore, and her embassy bore orders to Daire, the owner of the bull, asking that the bull might be sent to her for a year, and offering fifty heifers in payment. Daire received her messengers well, and willingly consented to her request; but the messengers of Meave from feasting fell to drinking, from drinking to boasting; one of them declaring that it was a small thing that Daire had granted the request, since they themselves would have compelled him, even unwillingly, and would have driven off the brown bull by force. The taunt stung Daire, after his hospitality, and in wrath he sent them forth empty-handed, and so they came slighted to Meave.

The queen, conceiving her honor impeached, would by no means suffer the matter so to rest, but stirred up wrath and dissension, till the armies of Connacht with their allies set forth to sack and burn in Ulad, and at all hazards to bring the brown bull. Fergus and the men who fought by his side went with them, and marching thus eastwards they came, after three days march through fair lands and fertile, to the river Dee—the frontier of Ulad, and the scene of many well-fought fights.

The army of Ulad was not yet ready to meet them, but one champion with his band confronted them at the ford. That champion was Cuculain, whose true name was Setanta, son of Sualtam, chief at Dundelga, and of Dectira the sister of Concobar. Cuculain was accounted the greatest and most skillful warrior of his time, and bards for ages after told how he kept the ford. For by the laws of honor, amongst them, the host from Connacht could not pass the ford so long as Cuculain held the ford and offered single combat to the champions. They must take up his challenge one by one; and while he stood there challenging, the host could not pass.

Many of their champions fell there by the ford, so that queen Meave's heart chafed within her, and her army was hot to do battle, but still Cuculain kept the ford. Last of the western champions came forth Ferdiad, taught in the famous northern school of arms, a dear friend and companion of Cuculain, who now must meet him to slay or be slain. This is the story of their combat, as the traditions tell it:

When they ceased fighting on the first day, they cast their weapons away from them into the hands of their charioteers. Each of them approached the other forthwith, and each put his hand round the other's neck, and gave him three kisses. Their horses were in the same paddock that night, and their charioteers at the same fire; and their charioteers spread beds of green rushes for them, with wounded men's pillows to them. The men of healing came to heal and solace them, applying herbs that should assuage to every cut or gash upon their bodies, and to all their wounds. Of every healing herb that was laid on the hurts of Cuculain, he sent an equal share to Ferdiad, sending it westward over the ford, so that men might not say that through the healing virtue of the herbs he was able to overcome him. And of all food and invigorating drink that was set before Ferdiad, he sent an equal portion northwards over the ford to Cuculain, for those that prepared food for him were more than those who made ready food for Cuculain. Thus that night they rested.

They fought with spears on the next day, and so great was the strength of each, so dire their skill in combat, that both were grievously wounded, for all the protection of their shields. The men of healing art could do little for them beyond the staunching of their blood, that it might not flow from their wounds, laying herbs upon their red wounds.

On the third day they arose early in the morning and came forward to the place of combat. Cuculain saw that the face of Ferdiad was dark as a black cloud, and thus addressed him: "Thy face is darkened, Ferdiad, and thine eye has lost its fire, nor are the form and features thine!" And Ferdiad answered, "O, Cuculain, it is not from fear or dread that my face is changed, for I am ready to meet all champions in the fight." Cuculain reproached him, wondering that, for the persuasions of Meave, Ferdiad was willing thus to fight against his friend, coming to spoil his land. But Ferdiad replied that fate compelled him, since every man is constrained to come unto the sod where shall be his last resting-place. That day the heroes fought with swords, but such was the skill of both that neither could break down the other's guard.

In the dusk they cast away their weapons, ceasing from the fight; and though the meeting of the two had been full of vigor and friendship in the morning, yet was their parting at night mournful and full of sorrow. That night their horses were not in the same enclosure, nor did their charioteers rest at the same fire.

Then Ferdiad arose early in the morning and went forth to the place of contest, knowing well that that day would decide whether he should fall or Cuculain; knowing that the sun would set on one of them dead that night. Cuculain, seeing him come forth, spoke thus to his charioteer: "I see the might and skill of Ferdiad, coming forth to the combat. If it be I that shall begin to yield to-day, do thou stir my valor, uttering reproaches and words of condemnation against me, so that my wrath shall grow upon me, enkindling me again for the battle." And the charioteer assented and promised.

Great was the deed that was performed that day at the ford by the two heroes, the two warriors, the two champions of western lands, the two gift-bestowing hands of the northwest of the world, the two beloved pillars of the valor of the Gael, the two keys of the bravery of the Gael, brought to fight from afar through the schemes of Meave the queen.

They began to shoot with their missiles from the dawn of the day, from early morning till noon. And when midday came the ire of the men waxed more furious, and they drew nearer together. Then Cuculain sprang from the river-bank against the boss of the shield of Ferdiad, son of Daman, to strike at his head over the rim of the shield from above. But Ferdiad gave the shield so strong a turn with his left arm that he cast Cuculain from him like a bird. Cuculain sprang again upon him, to strike him from above. But the son of Daman so struck the shield with his left knee that he cast Cuculain from him like a child.

Then the charioteer of Cuculain spoke to chide him: "Woe for thee, whom the warrior thus casts aside as an evil mother casts away her offspring. He throws thee as foam is thrown by the river. He grinds thee as a mill would grind fresh grain. He pierces thee as the ax of the woodman cleaves the oak. He binds thee as the woodbine binds the tree. He darts on thee as the hawk darts on finches, so that henceforth thou hast no claim or name or fame for valor, until thy life's end, thou phantom sprite!"

Then Cuculain sprang up fleet as the wind and swift as the swallow, fierce as a dragon, strong as a lion, advancing against Ferdiad through clouds of dust, and forcing himself upon his shield, to strike at him from above. Yet even then Ferdiad shook him off, driving him backwards into the ford.

Then Cuculain's countenance was changed, and his heart swelled and grew great within him till he towered demoniac and gigantic, rising like one of the Fomor upon Ferdiad. So fierce was the fight they now fought that their heads met above and their feet below and their arms in the midst, past the rims of the shields. So fierce was the fight they fought that they cleft the shields to their centers. So fierce was the fight they fought that their spears were shivered from socket to haft. So fierce was the fight they fought that the demons of the air screamed along the rims of the shields, and from the hilts of their swords and from the hafts of their spears. So fierce was the fight they fought that they cast the river out of its bed, so that not a drop of water lay there unless from the fierceness of the champion heroes hewing each other in the midst of the ford. So fierce was the fight they fought that the horses of the Gael fled away in fright, breaking their chains and their yokes, and the women and youths and camp-followers broke from the camp, flying forth southwards and westwards.

They were fighting with the edges of their swords, and Ferdiad, finding a break in the guard of Cuculain, gave him a stroke of the straight-edged sword, burying it in his body until the blood fell into his girdle, until the ford was red with the blood of the hero's body. Then Cuculain thrust an unerring spear over the rim of the shield, and through the breast of Ferdiad's armor, so that the point of the spear pierced his heart and showed through his body.

"That is enough, now," said Ferdiad: "I fall for that!" Then Cuculain ran towards him, and clasped his two arms about him, and bore him with his arms and armor across the ford northwards. Cuculain laid Ferdiad down there, bowing over his body in faintness and weakness. But the charioteer cried to him, "Rise up, Cuculain, for the host is coming upon us, and it is not single combat they will give thee, since Ferdiad, son of Daman, son of Daire, has fallen before thee!"

"Friend," Cuculain made answer, "what avails it for me to rise after him that has fallen by me?"

Thus did Cuculain keep the ford, still known as the ford of Ferdiad, Ath-Fhirdia on the Dee, in the midst of the green plain of Louth. And while he fought at the ford of Ferdiad the army of Ulad assembled, and coming southwards over the hills before Emain, turned back the host of Meave the queen and pursued them. The army of Meave fled westwards and southwards towards Connacht, passing the Yellow Ford of Athboy and the Hill of Ward, the place of sacrifice, where the fires on the Day of Spirits summoned the priests and Druids to the offering. Fleeing still westwards from the Yellow Ford, they passed between the lakes of Owel and Ennel, with the men of Ulad still hot in their rear. Thus came pursued and pursuers to Gairec, close by Athlone—the Ford of Luan—and the wooded shore of the great Lough Ree. There was fought a battle hardly less fatal to victors than to vanquished, for though the hosts of Meave were routed, yet Concobar's men could not continue the pursuit. Thus Meave escaped and Fergus with her, and came to their great fort on the green hillside of Cruacan amid the headwaters of the Shannon.

The victory of Concobar's men was like a defeat. There was not food that pleased him, nor did sleep come to him by flight, so that the Ulad wondered, and Catbad the right-wonderful Druid, himself a warrior who had taught Concobar and reared him, went to Concobar to learn the secret of his trouble. Therefore Catbad asked of Concobar what wound had wounded him, what obstinate sickness had come upon him, making him faint and pale, day after day.

"Great reason have I for it," answered Concobar, "for the four great provinces of Erin have come against me, bringing with them their bards and singers, that their ravages and devastations might be recorded, and they have burned our fortresses and dwellings, and Ailill and Meave have gained a battle against me. Therefore I would be avenged upon Meave the queen."

"Thou hast already avenged it sternly, O Red-handed Concobar," Catbad made answer, "by winning the battle over the four provinces of Erin."

"That is no battle," Concobar answered, "where a strong king falls not by hard fighting and by fury. That an army should escape from a goodly battle! Unless Ailill should fall, and Meave, by me in this encounter with valorous hosts, I tell you that my heart will break, O Catbad!"

"This is my counsel for thee," replied Catbad, "to stay for the present. For the winds are rough, and the roads are foul, and the streams and the rivers are in flood, and the hands of the warriors are busy making forts and strongholds among strangers. So wait till the summer days come upon us, till every grassy sod is a pillow, till our horses are full of spirit and our colts are strong, till our men are whole of their wounds and hurts, till the nights are short to watch and to ward and to guard in the land of enemies and in the territories of strangers. Spring is not the time for an invasion. But meanwhile let tidings be sent to thy friends in absence, in the islands and throughout the northern seas."

Therefore messengers were sent with the tidings, and the friends in absence of Concobar were summoned. They set forth with ships from the islands of the northern seas, and came forward with the tide to the Cantyre headland. The green surges of the tremendous sea rose about them, and a mighty storm rose against them. Such was the strength of the storm that the fleet was parted in three. A third of them, with the son of Amargin, came under the cliffs of Fair Head, to the Bay of Murbolg, where huge columns tower upward on the face of the cliff, high as the nests of the eagles; cliffs ruddy and mighty, frowning tremendous across the channel to Cantyre and Islay and far-away Jura. A third of the ships came to the safer harbor of Larne, where bands of white seam the cliff's redness, where the great headland is thrust forth northwards, sheltering the bay from the eastern waves. A third of the fleet came to the strand beside Dundelga, hard by the great hill of earth where was reared the stronghold of Cuculain.

At that same time came Concobar with a thousand men to the fort of Cuculain, and feasting was prepared for him at the House of Delga. Nor was Concobar long there till he saw the bent spars of sails and the full-crewed ships, and the scarlet pavilions, and the many-colored banners, and the blue bright lances, and the weapons of war. Then Concobar called on the chiefs that were about him, for the territory and land he had bestowed upon them, and for the jewels he had given them, to stand firm and faithful. For he knew not whether the ships were ships of his foes, of the Galian of Lagin, now called Leinster, or the Munstermen of great Muma, or the men of Olnemact, called afterwards Connacht; for the estuary of the river and the strand were full of men.

Then Senca son of Ailill answered for the chieftains: "I give my word, indeed, that Erin holds not a soldier who lays his hand in the hand of a chieftain that is not known to me. If they be the men of Erin thy foes that are there, I shall ask a truce of battle from them; but if they be thy friends and allies, thou shalt the more rejoice."

Then Senca son of Ailill went forward to the place where the ships were, and learned that they were the friends in absence of Concobar, come to be his allies against the four provinces of Erin. Then Concobar spoke to Cuculain:

"Well, O Cuculain, let the horses of the plain of Murtemni be caught by thee; let four-wheeled chariots be harnessed for them; bring with them hither my friends from the ships in chariots and four-wheeled cars, that feasting and enjoyment may be prepared for them."



They were brought in chariots to the feast, and carvers carved for them, and serving-men carried the cups of mead. Songs were sung to them, and they tarried there till sunrise on the morrow. Then Concobar spoke again to Cuculain:

"It is well, Cuculain. Let messengers now be sent through the lands of the Ulaid to the warriors of the Ulaid, that the foreign friends may be ministered to by them also, while I make my camp here by the river. And bid the thrice fifty veteran champions come hither to me, that I may have their aid and counsel in battle."

But Cuculain would not. Therefore Concobar went himself to summon the veterans. When they asked the cause of his coming, Concobar answered, "Have you not heard how the four provinces of Erin came against us, bringing with them their bards and singers, that their ravages and devastations might the better be recorded, and burning and plundering our fortresses and dwellings? Therefore I would make an expedition of hostility against them, and with your guidance and counsel would I make the expedition."

"Let our old steeds be caught by thee," they answered, "and let our old chariots be yoked by thee, so that we may go on this journey and expedition with thee." Then their old chargers were caught, and their old chariots yoked, so that they too came to the camp at the Water of Luachan.

This was told to the four provinces. The Three Waves of Erin thundered in the night; the Wave of Clidna at Glandore in the South; the Wave of Rudraige along the bent-carpeted sandhills of Dundrum, under the Mountains of Mourne; and the Wave of Tuag Inbir, at the bar of northern Bann. For these are the Three Waves of Fate in Erin. Then the four provinces hosted their men. The son of Lucta, the north Munster king, assembled his tribes at the Hill of Luchra, between the Shannon mouth and the Summit of Prospects. Ailill and Meave hosted the men of the west at Cruacan. Find, son of Ros, king over the Galian of Leinster, gathered his army at Dinn-Rig by the Barrow. Cairpre Nia Fer assembled his host about him at Tara, in the valley of the Boyne.

This was the proposal of Eocu, son of Lucta, king of north Munster by the Shannon: That everything should have its payment, and that reparation should be made to Concobar for the invasion; that a fort should be paid for every fort, for every house a house, for every cow a cow, for every bull a bull; that the great brown bull should be sent back, that the breadth of the face of the bull in red gold should be given to Concobar, and that there should be no more hostility among the men of Erin.

This was reported to Meave, but the queen answered, "A false hand was his who gave this counsel. For so long as there shall be among us one who can hold a sword, who can wear the shield-strap about his neck, that proposal shall not go to him."

"Thy counsel is not mine," replied Ailill, "for not greater shall be our part of that payment than the part of all the four provinces who went on that raid for the bull." Therefore Meave consented, and messengers were sent, and came to Tara by the Boyne, where were Find, son of Ros, king of Leinster, and his brother Cairpre Nia Fer, king of Tara. Thence they sent messengers to treat with Concobar, but Concobar rejected the terms. "I give my word, indeed," answered Concobar, "that I will not take terms from you till my tent has been pitched in every province of Erin."

"Good, O Concobar," they replied; "where wilt thou now make thy encampment to-night?"

"In the Headland of the Kings, by the clear bright Boyne," answered Concobar, for Concobar concealed not ever from his enemy the place in which he would take station or camp, that they might not say that it was fear or dread that caused him not to say it. Concobar, therefore, marched toward the Headland of the Kings, across the Boyne to the southward, and facing the northern bank where are the pyramids of the Dagda Mor and the De Danaans. But the southern armies were there already, so Concobar halted before the river. Then were their positions fixed and their pavilions pitched, their huts and their tents were made. Their fires were kindled, cooking and food and drink were prepared; baths of clean bathing were made by them, and their hair was smooth-combed; their bodies were minutely cleansed, supper and food were eaten by them; and tunes and merry songs and eulogies were sung by them.

Then Concobar sent men to reconnoitre the southern and western armies. Two went and returned not, falling indeed into the hands of the foe. It seemed long to Concobar that the two were gone. He spoke, therefore, to his kinsman: "Good indeed, Irgalac, son of Macclac, son of Congal, son of Rudraige, sayest thou who is proper to go to estimate and to reconnoitre the army?"

"Who should go there," answered Irgalac, "but Iriel good at arms, great-kneed son of Conall Cernac. He is a Conall for havoc, a Cuculain for dexterity of feats. He is a Catbad, a right-wonderful Druid, for intelligence and counsel, he is a Senca son of Ailill for peace and for good speech, he is a Celtcair son of Utecar for valor, he is a Concobar son of Factna Fatac for kingliness and wide-eyed-ness, for giving of treasures and of wealth and of riches. Who but Iriel should go?"

Therefore Iriel went forward: standing on the pyramid of the Dagda, he began measuring and reconnoitering the army. His spirit, or his mind, or his thoughts did not fret over them at all. He brought their description with him to the place in which Concobar was.

"How, my life, Iriel?" said Concobar. "I give my word truly," said Iriel; "it seems to me that there is not ford on river, or stone on hill, nor highway nor road in the territory of Breg or Mide, that is not full of their horse-teams and of their servants. It seems to me that their apparel and their gear and their garments are the blaze of a royal house from the plain."

"Good, O Ulaid," said Concobar, "what is your advice to us for the battle?" "Our advice is," said the Ulaid, "to wait till our strong men and our leaders and our commanders and our supporters of battle come." Not long was their waiting, and not great was their stay, till they saw three chariot-warriors approaching them, and a band of twelve hundred along with each rider of them. It is these that were there—three of the goodly men of science of the Ulaid, to wit, Catbad the right-wonderful Druid, and Aiterni the Importunate, and Amargin the man of science and art. After them came other valiant leaders with troops. Then Concobar arose and took his gear of battle and of conflict and of combat about him, saying, "Why should we not give battle?"

A third of the army of the Ulaid rose with him, too. And they went over the river Boyne. And the other armies arose against them as they were crossing the river. And each of them took to hacking and to cutting down the other, destroying and wounding till there was no similitude of the Ulaid at that point of time, unless it were a huge sturdy oakwood in the middle of the plain, and a great army were to go close to it, and the slender and the small of the wood were cut off, but its huge sturdy oaks were left behind. Thus their young were cut off, and none but their champions and their battle-warriors and their good heroes of valor were left.

The shield of Concobar was struck so that it moaned, and the three Waves of Erin, the Wave of Clidna, the Wave of Rudraige, and the Wave of Tuag Inbir echoed that moan, and all the shields of the Ulaid resounded, every one of them that was on their shoulders and in their chariots. As the Ulaid were retreating, fresh troops came up for them under Conall Cernac. A tree of shelter and a wreath of laurel and a hand above them was Conall to them. So their flight was stayed. Then Conall drew the sharp long sword out of its sheath of war and played the music of his sword on the armies. The ring of Conall's sword was heard through the battalions on both sides. And when they heard the music of Conall's sword their hearts quaked and their eyes fluttered and their faces whitened, and each of them withdrew back into his place of battle and of combat. But so fierce was the onset of the southern armies that the fight of the Ulaid against them was as a breast against a great flood, or an arrow against the rock, or the striking of a head against cliffs. Yet through the great might of Cuculain the Ulaid prevailed, and Cairpre the King of Tara was slain. After the battle, Concobar spoke thus: "There were three sons of Ros Ruad the king—Find in Alend, Ailill in Cruac, Cairpre in Tara; together they performed their deeds of valor, the three brothers in every strife; together they used to give their battle. They were three pillars of gold about their hills, abiding in strength; great is their loss since the third son has fallen."



VII.

FIND AND OSSIN.

A.D. 200—290.

Seventeen centuries ago, two hundred summers after the death of Cuculain the hero, came the great and wonderful time of Find the son of Cumal, Ossin the son of Find, and Find's grandson Oscur. It was a period of growth and efflorescence; the spirit and imaginative powers of the people burst forth with the freshness of the prime. The life of the land was more united, coming to a national consciousness.

The five kingdoms were now clearly defined, with Meath, in the central plain, predominant over the others, and in a certain sense ruling all Ireland from the Hill of Tara. The code of honor was fixed; justice had taken well-defined forms; social life had ripened to genial urbanity. The warriors were gathered together into something like a regular army, a power rivaling the kings. Of this army, Find, son of Cumal, was the most renowned leader—a warrior and a poet, who embodied in himself the very genius of the time, its fresh naturalness, its ripeness, its imagination. No better symbol of the spirit of his age could be found than Find's own "Ode to Spring":

"May-day! delightful time! How beautiful the color! The blackbirds sing their full lay. Would that Laigay were here! The cuckoos call in constant strains. How welcome is ever the noble brightness of the season. On the margin of the leafy pools the summer swallows skim the stream. Swift horses seek the pools. The heath spreads out its long hair. The white, gentle cotton-grass grows. The sea is lulled to rest. Flowers cover the earth."

Find's large and imaginative personality is well drawn in one of the poems of his golden-tongued son Ossin, though much of the beauty of Ossin's form is lost in the change of tongue:

"Six thousand gallant men of war We sought the rath o'er Badamar; To the king's palace home we bent Our way. His bidden guests we went. 'Twas Clocar Fair, And Find was there, The Fians from the hills around Had gathered to the race-course ground. From valley deep and wooded glen Fair Munster sent its mighty men; And Fiaca, Owen's son, the king, Was there the contest witnessing. 'Twas gallant sport! With what delight Leaped thousand pulses at the sight. How all hearts bound As to the ground First are brought forth the Fian steeds, Then those from Luimnea's sunny meads. Three heats on Mac Mareda's green They run; and foremost still is seen Dill Mac Decreca's coal-black steed. At Crag-Lochgur he takes the lead.

"His is the day—and, lo! the king The coal-black steed soliciting From Dill the Druid!—'Take for it A hundred beeves; for it is fit The black horse should be mine to pay Find for his deeds of many a day.'

"Then spoke the Druid, answering His grandson, Fiaca the king: 'Take my blessing; take the steed, For the hero's fitting meed: Give it for thy honor's sake.' And to Find the King thus spake

"'Hero, take the swift black steed, Of thy valor fitting meed; And my car, in battle-raid Gazed on by the foe with fear; And a seemly steed for thy charioteer. Chieftain, be this good sword thine, Purchased with a hundred kine, In thine hand be it our aid.

Take this spear, whose point the breath Of venomed words has armed with death, And the silver-orbed shield, Sunbeam of the battlefield! And take with thee My grayhounds three, Slender and tall, Bright-spotted all, Take them with thee, chieftain bold, With their chainlets light Of the silver white, And their neck-rings of the tawny gold. Slight not thou our offering, Son of Cumal, mighty king!"

"Uprose Find our chieftain bold, Stood before the Fian ranks, To the king spoke gracious thanks, Took the gifts the monarch gave; Then each to each these champions brave Glorious sight to see and tell, Spoke their soldier-like farewell!

"The way before us Find led then; We followed him, six thousand men, From out the Fair, six thousand brave, To Caicer's house of Cloon-na-Dave.

"Three nights, three days, did all of us Keep joyous feast in Caicer's house; Fifty rings of the yellow gold To Caicer Mac Caroll our chieftain told; As many cows and horses gave To Caicer Mac Caroll our chieftain brave. Well did Find of Innisfail Pay the price of his food and ale.

"Find rode o'er the Luacra, joyous man, Till he reached the strand at Barriman; At the lake where the foam on the billow's top Leaps white, did Find and the Fians stop.

"'Twas then that our chieftain rode and ran Along the strand of Barriman; Trying the speed Of his swift black steed,— Who now but Find was a happy man?

"Myself and Cailte at each side, In wantonness of youthful pride, Would ride with him where he might ride. Fast and furious rode he, Urging his steed to far Tralee. On from Tralee by Lerg duv-glass, And o'er Fraegmoy, o'er Finnass, O'er Moydeo, o'er Monaken, On to Shan-iber, o'er Shan-glen, Till the clear stream of Flesk we win, And reach the pillar of Crofinn; O'er Sru-Muny, o'er Moneket, And where the fisher spreads his net To snare the salmon of Lemain, And thence to where our coursers' feet Wake the glad echoes of Loch Leane; And thus fled he, Nor slow were we; Through rough and smooth our course we strain.

"Long and swift our stride,—more fleet Than the deer of the mountain our coursers' feet! Away to Flesk by Carnwood dun; And past Mac Scalve's Mangerton, Till Find reached Barnec Hill at last; There rested he, and then we passed Up the high hill before him, and: 'Is there no hunting hut at hand?' He thus addressed us; 'The daylight Is gone, and shelter for the night We lack.' He scarce had ended, when Gazing adown the rocky glen, On the left hand, just opposite, He saw a house with its fire lit; 'That house till now I've never seen, Though many a time and oft I've been In this wild glen. Come, look at it!'

"Yes, there are things that our poor wit Knows little of,' said Cailte; 'thus This may be some miraculous Hostel we see, whose generous blaze Thy hospitality repays, Large-handed son of Cumal!'—So On to the house all three we go...."

Of their entry to the mysterious house, of the ogre and the witch they found there, of the horrors that gathered on all sides, when

"From iron benches on the right Nine headless bodies rose to sight, And on the left, from grim repose, Nine heads that had no bodies rose,..."

Ossin likewise tells, and how, overcome, they fell at last into a deathlike trance and stupor, till the sunlight woke them lying on the heathery hillside, the house utterly vanished away.

The scenes of all the happenings in the story are well known: the rath of Badamar is near Caher on the Suir, in the midst of the Golden Vale, a plain of wonderful richness and beauty, walled in by the red precipices of the Galtee Mountains, and the Knock-Mealdown Hills. From the rath of Badamar Find could watch the western mountains reddening and glowing in front of the dawn, as the sun-rays shot level over the burnished plain. Clocar is thirty miles westward over the Golden Vale, near where Croom now stands; and here were run the races; here Find gained the gift of the coal-black steed. It is some forty miles still westwards to the Strand of Tralee; the last half of the way among hills carpeted with heather; and the Strand itself, with the tide out, leaves a splendid level of white sand as far as the eye can reach, tempting Find to try his famous courser. The race carried them southwards some fifteen miles to the beautiful waters of Lough Leane, with its overhanging wooded hills, the Lake of Killarney, southward of which rises the huge red mass of Mangerton, in the midst of a country everywhere rich in beauty. The Hill of Barnec is close by, but the site of the magic dwelling, who can tell? Perhaps Find; or Cailte, or golden-tongued Ossin himself.

There was abundant fighting in those days, for well within memory was the time of Conn of the Five-score Fights, against whom Cumal had warred because Conn lord of Connacht had raised Crimtan of the Yellow Hair to the kingship of Leinster. Cumal fought at the Rath that bears his name, now softened to Rathcool, twelve miles inward from the sea at Dublin, with the hills rising up from the plain to the south of the Rath. Cumal fought and fell, slain by Goll Mac Morna, and enmity long endured between Find and Goll who slew his sire. But like valiant men they were reconciled, and when Goll in his turn died, Find made a stirring poem on Goll's mighty deeds.

Another fateful fight for Find was the battle of Kinvarra, among the southern rocks of Galway Bay; for though he broke through the host of his foeman Uince, that chieftain himself escaped, and, riding swiftly with a score of men, came to Find's own dwelling at Druim Dean on the Red Hills of Leinster, and burned the dwelling, leaving it a smoldering ruin. Find pursuing, overtook them, slaying them at the ford called to this day Ath-uince, the ford of Uince. Returning homewards, Find found his house desolate, and the song he sang still holds the memory of his sorrow.

Two poems he made, on the Plain of Swans and on Roirend in Offaly, full of vivid pictures and legends; and one of romantic tragedy, telling how the two daughters of King Tuatal Tectmar were treacherously slain, through the malice of the Leinster king. But of romances and songs of fair women in the days of Find, the best is the Poem of Gael, who composed it to win a princess for his bride.

Of fair Crede of the Yellow Hair it was said that there was scarce a gem in all Erin that she had not got as a love-token, but that she would give her heart to none. Crede had vowed that she would marry the man who made the best verses on her home, a richly-adorned dwelling in the south, under the twin cones of the Paps, and within sight of Lough Leane and Killarney. Cael took up the challenge, and invoking the Genius that dwelt in the sacred pyramid of Brugh on the Boyne he made these verses, and came to recite them to yellow-haired Crede:

"It would be happy for me to be in her home, Among her soft and downy couches, Should Crede deign to hear me; Happy for me would be my journey. A bowl she has, whence berry-juice flows, With which she colors her eyebrows black; She has clear vessels of fermenting ale; Cups she has, and beautiful goblets. The color of her house is white like lime; Within it are couches and green rushes; Within it are silks and blue mantles; Within it are red gold and crystal cups. Of its sunny chamber the corner stones Are all of silver and yellow gold, Its roof in stripes of faultless order Of wings of brown and crimson red. Two doorposts of green I see, Nor is the door devoid of beauty; Of carved silver,—long has it been renowned,— Is the lintel that is over the door. Crede's chair is on your right hand, The pleasantest of the pleasant it is; All over a blaze of Alpine gold, At the foot of her beautiful couch... The household which is in her house To the happiest fate has been destined; Grey and glossy are their garments; Twisted and fair is their flowing hair. Wounded men would sink in sleep, Though ever so heavily teeming with blood, With the warbling of the fairy birds From the eaves of her sunny summer-room. If I am blessed with the lady's grace, Fair Crede for whom the cuckoo sings, In songs of praise shall ever live, If she but repay me for my gift.... There is a vat of royal bronze, Whence flows the pleasant; nice of malt; An apple-tree stands over the vat, With abundance of weighty fruit. When Crede's goblet is filled With the ale of the noble vat, There drop down into the cup forthwith Four apples at the same time. The four attendants that have been named, Arise and go to the distributing, They present to four of the guests around A drink to each man and an apple. She who possesses all these things, With the strand and the stream that flow by them, Crede of the three-pointed hill, Is a spear-cast beyond the women of Erin. Here is a poem for her,—no mean gift. It is not a hasty, rash composition; To Crede now it is here presented: May my journey be brightness to her!"



Tradition says that the heart of the yellow-haired beauty was utterly softened and won, so that she delayed not to make Cael master of the dwelling he so well celebrated; master, perhaps, of all the jewels of Erin that her suitors had given her. Yet their young love was not destined to meet the storms and frosts of the years; for Cael the gallant fell in battle, his melodious lips for ever stilled. Thus have these two become immortal in song.

We have seen Cailte with Ossin following Find in his wild ride through the mountains of Killarney, and to Cailte is attributed the saying that echoes down the ages: "There are things that our poor wit knows nothing off!" Cailte was a great lover of the supernatural, yet there was in him also a vein of sentiment, shown in his poem on the death of Clidna—"Clidna the fair-haired, long to be remembered," who was tragically drowned at Glandore harbor in the south, and whose sad wraith still moans upon the bar, in hours of fate for the people of Erin.

In a gayer vein is the poem of Fergus the Eloquent, who sang the legend of Tipra Seangarmna, the Fountain of the Feale River, which flows westward to the sea from the mountains north of Killarney. The river rises among precipices, gloomy caverns and ravines, and passes through vales full of mysterious echoes amid mist-shrouded hills. There, as Fergus sings, were Ossin and his following hunting, when certain ominous fair women lured them to a cave,—women who were but insubstantial wraiths,—to hold them captive till the seasons ran full circle, summer giving place again to winter and spring. But Ossin, being himself of more than human wisdom, found a way to trick the spirits; for daily he cut chips from his spear and sent them floating down the spring, till Find at last saw them, and knew the tokens as Ossin's, and, coming, delivered his son from durance among ghosts.

The great romantic theme of the time binds the name of Find, son of Cumal, with that of Cormac, son of Art, and grandson of Conn of the Five-score Battles. This Cormac was himself a notable man of wisdom, and here are some of the Precepts he taught to Cairbre, his son:

"O grandson of Conn, O Cormac," Cairbre asked him, "what is good for a king?"

"This is plain," answered Cormac. "It is good for him to have patience and not to dispute, self-government without anger, affability without haughtiness, diligent attention to history, strict observance of covenants and agreements, justice tempered by mercy in the execution of the laws. It is good for him to make fertile land, to invite ships, to import jewels of price from across the sea, to purchase and distribute raiment, to keep vigorous swordsmen who may protect his territory, to make war beyond his territory, to attend to the sick, to discipline his soldiers. Let him enforce fear, let him perfect peace, let him give mead and wine, let him pronounce just judgments of light, let him speak all truth, for it is through the truth of a king that God gives favorable seasons."

"O grandson of Conn, O Cormac," Cairbre again asked him, "what is good for the welfare of a country?"

"This is plain," answered Cormac. "Frequent assemblies of wise and good men to investigate its affairs, to abolish every evil and retain every wholesome institution, to attend to the precepts of the seniors; let every assembly be convened according to the law, let the law be in the hands of the noblest, let the chieftains be upright and unwilling to oppress the poor."

"O grandson of Conn, O Cormac," again asked Cairbre, "what are duties of a prince in the banqueting-house?"

"A prince on the Day of Spirits should light his lamps and welcome his guests with clapping of hands, offering comfortable seats; the cup-bearers should be active in distributing meat and drink. Let there be moderation of music, short stories, a welcoming countenance, a greeting for the learned, pleasant conversation. These are the duties of a prince and the arrangement of a banqueting-house."

"O grandson of Conn, O Cormac, for what qualifications is a king elected over countries and tribes of people?"

"From the goodness of his shape and family, from his experience and wisdom, from his prudence and magnanimity, from his eloquence and bravery in battle, and from the number of his friends."

"O grandson of Conn, O Cormac, what was thy deportment when a youth?"

"I was cheerful at the banquet of the House of Mead, I was fierce in battle, but vigilant and careful. I was kind to friends, a physician to the sick, merciful to the weak, stern toward the headstrong. Though possessed of knowledge, I loved silence. Though strong, I was not overbearing. Though young, I mocked not the old. Though valiant, I was not vain. When I spoke of one absent I praised and blamed him not, for by conduct like this are we known to be courteous and refined."

"O grandson of Conn, O Cormac, what is good for me?"

"If thou attend to my command, thou wilt not scorn the old though thou art young, nor the poor though thou art well clad, nor the lame though thou art swift, nor the blind though thou seest, nor the weak though thou art strong, nor the ignorant though thou art wise. Be not slothful, be not passionate, be not greedy, be not idle, be not jealous; for he who is so is hateful to God and man."

"O grandson of Conn, O Cormac, I would know how to hold myself with the wise and the foolish, with friends and strangers, with old and young."

"Be not too knowing or simple, too proud or inactive, too humble or haughty, talkative or too silent, timid or too severe. For if thou art too knowing, thou wilt be mocked at and abused; if too simple, thou wilt be deceived; if proud, thou wilt be shunned; if too humble, thou wilt suffer; if talkative, thou wilt be thought foolish; if too severe, men will speak ill of thee; if timid, thy rights will suffer."

"O grandson of Conn, O Cormac, how shall I discern the characters of women?"

"I know them, but I cannot describe them. Their counsel is foolish, they are forgetful of love, most headstrong in their desires, fond of folly, prone to enter rashly into engagements, given to swearing, proud to be asked in marriage, tenacious of enmity, cheerless at the banquet, rejectors of reconciliation, prone to strife, of much garrulity. Until evil be good, until hell be heaven, until the sun hide his light, until the stars of heaven fall, women will remain as we have declared. Woe to him, my son, who desires or serves a bad woman, woe to him who has a bad wife."

Was there some thought of his daughter Grania in Cormac's mind, behind these keen-edged; words?—of Grania, beloved of Diarmuid? When the winters of the years were already white on Find, son of Cumal, when Ossin his son had a son of his own, Oscur the valiant, the two old men, Cormac the king and Find leader of the warriors, bethought them to make a match between Find and Grania, one of the famous beauties of the olden time. A banquet was set in the great House of Mead, and Find and his men were there, Diarmuid son of Duibne being also there, best beloved among Find's warriors. There was a custom, much in honor among the chieftains, that a princess should send her goblet to the guests, offering it to each with gentle courtesy. This grace fell to the lady Grania, whose whole heart rose up against her grey-bearded lover, and was indeed set on Diarmuid the son of Duibne. Grania compounded a dreamy draught to mix with the mead, so that all the chieftains and warriors, with Cormac and Find himself, even while praising the drink, fell straightway a-nodding, and were soon in silent sleep, all except Ossin and Diarmuid, whom Grania had bidden not to drink.