Part 8

So far as the direct study of Celtic poetry was concerned the Ossianic controversy was unquestionably a misfortune. It threw a cloud of suspicion and discredit upon the genuine fragments which remained, and discouraged the study which might otherwise have been given to them, so that, unquestionably, some traditional Celtic poetry has been lost by the decay of the language as a living speech, and it is only in later years that enlightened scholarship and patriotic feeling have led to the careful and appreciative study of the manuscript volumes which have survived time and neglect, for their inherent literary and historical value, and to a consideration of the influence of the Celtic spirit upon English literature. They have been found to be of great value and interest, to possess elements of pure poetry of marked and original quality, and a spirit which has had a strong effect upon English literature. Nevertheless there has not been found in the remains of Celtic literature any single poem which in itself would compare with the Nibelungen Lied or with the Song of Roland, in epic form and constructiveness, in clearness of diction and dramatic strength; nor even any prose legend or narrative history, which would compare with the clear and vigorous character drawing and lucid narration of the Icelandic and Scandinavian Sagas. What would have been the case had the original poems and histories of the sixth century been preserved can only be conjectured. Those which now exist are only in the transcripts of the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, greatly transformed, altered, and confused in dates and characters, and bearing the marks of a great deterioration in style, like the degradation of Latin prose in its later era. The passages which competent Celtic scholars have pronounced from philological evidence to be of an earlier construction, are a good deal stronger as well as simpler in expression than those by which they are surrounded, and indicate that, if the earlier poetry had been preserved in its purity without being amplified and weakened by scholastic and artificial phraseology, it might have rivaled the early Teutonic poetry in force, directness and simplicity, and strength of construction. As it is, the Celtic poems and histories are not only confused and prolix with interminable genealogies and proverbial reflections, but are written in a style, with a redundance and complication of epithets, at once weakening and tiresome. Thus in an Irish history of the Triumphs of Turlogh O'Brien, written in the thirteenth century, there is the following description of the dress and arms of a hero:--"His noble garment was first brought to him, viz., a strong, well-formed, close-ridged, defensively-furrowed, terrific, neat-bordered, new-made, and scarlet-red cassock of fidelity; he expertly put on that gold-bordered garment, which covered him as far as from the lower part of his soft, fine, redwhite neck, to the upper part of his expert, snowwhite, round-knotted knee. Over that mantle he put on a full, strong, white-topped, wide-round, gold-bordered, straight, and parti-colored coat of mail, well-fitted, and ornamented with many curious devices of exquisite workmanship. He put on a beautiful, thick, and saffron-colored belt of war, embellished with clasps and buckles set with precious stones, and hung with golden tassels; to this belt was hung his active and trusty lance, regularly cased in a tubic sheath, but that it was somewhat greater in height than the height of the sheath; he squeezed the brilliant, gilt, and starry belt about the coat of mail; and a long, blue-edged, bright-steeled, sharp-pointed, broad-sided, active, whitebacked, half-polished, monstrous, smooth-bladed, small-thick, and well-fashioned dagger was fixed to the tie of that embroidered and parti-colored belt; a white, embroidered, full-wide, strong, and well-wove hood was put on him over his golden mail; he himself laid on his head a strong-cased, spherical, towering, polished-shining, branch-engraved, long-enduring helmet; he took his edged, smooth-bladed, letter-graved, destructive, sharp-pointed, fight-taming, sheathed, gold-guarded, and girded sword, which he tied fast in haste to his side."

The confusion which exists in the transcripts of the ancient poems between the pagan mythology and the Christian faith, and the superposition of

Latin learning and mediaeval thought, is also a great injury to the consecutiveness and vraisemblance of the story, and the effect is as if the tale of the Nibelungen Lied had been told by a monkish chronicler with all the embellishments of a later faith and the ornaments of an artificial style. The poetry has not all perished from the earlier originals, and in many instances there is a vigor of narrative, a poetical power of description, and an elevation of sentiment, which shines through the amplification and verbiage, and redeems the prolixity and tediousness of the story; but, as has been said, the prevailing impression is one of a corrupted and weakened, instead of a strong and original primitive poetry, and a literal translation of an Irish or Scotch Celtic poem or history is not likely to attract the general reader from its purely literary quality. The poetry lies in a heap of dross, and must be painfully smelted out.

The only way in which ancient Celtic poetry can be known and appreciated by the English reader, and have its effect in English literature, is by the presentation of its spirit and atmosphere, its essential elements in local form and color, its characteristic phraseology and tone of thought in English poetry of original power as well as essential faithfulness. The poet who is to do this successfully must have, what Macpherson had not, a thorough knowledge of the language and an appreciation of its method as the expression of thought, be completely saturated with the knowledge of the time, and possess the literary conscience and taste to be completely faithful to the original spirit. The most conspicuous example in our time of an attempt to reproduce the spirit of legendary romance in original poetry is, of course, The Idylls of the King, and the impress of a very thorough study and saturation of the spirit of the ancient chronicles is as visible as the exquisite substance of original poetry. But the stories of The Idylls of the King are based upon, rather than' closely reproduce, the legends of Arthurian romance, and the spirit has been elevated and refined by that of modern poetry and the nature of Tennyson's own genius to essential unreality. They are like the pictures of Madonnas and mediaeval saints done by a modern painter of genius with all the skill and technique of art, but without the sense of devotion which shows through the ruder sketches of the earlier and greatly inferior painters, who were inspired by something more than merely artistic enthusiasm. It is needless to say that for a poet to possess the self-restraint to be entirely faithful to his originals, and aim mainly at reproducing their form as well as spirit, is more rare, and may be said to have less power, than one who creates an original structure of poetry upon the basis of ancient romance; but he has his function also, and may be something more than a mere translator, as he gives his material shape in modern form and with the embellishments of his own genius, while he yet preserves the ancient characteristics. He is like the skillful architect who restores a ruined castle to a habitable dwelling, clearing away the rubbish which has choked its portals and surrounded its walls, while preserving its ancient shape and structure, and blending his new materials with the old so that it seems a harmonious building. This is the work to which Sir Samuel Ferguson has devoted himself in his reproduction of Irish Celtic poetry, both ballad and epic, and particularly in his poem of Congal, which is a recreation of the bardic romance of the Battle of Moyra, and its introductory Pre-Tale of the Banquet of Dunangay, prose versions which have been given by the eminent Celtic scholar, Dr. John O'Donovan, in the publications of the Irish Archaeological Society.

The battle of Moyra was an authentic historic event, and took place A. D. 637 between the forces of Domnal, king of Ireland, and those of Congal, sub-king of Ulster, and his allies, from Scotland, Wales, England, Brittany, and Scandinavia. It is regarded by Celtic historians as the last struggle of the bardic and pagan party in Ireland against the newly established power of Christianity, for which a pretext rather than a cause was found in an alleged slight of Domnal to Congal. The history, which is in prose interspersed with speeches and exhortations in verse in the usual manner of the bardic chronicles, was apparently written in its present form in the latter part of the eleventh century, and from earlier traditionary chronicles, which are now lost. Its style has a good deal of vigor and force, but is marked with the faults of confusion, and the redundance of 'descriptive epithets characteristic of the writers of the time. Its story is that Congal, having been invited by Domnal to a banquet at the royal house at Dunangay, was served with a hen's egg upon a wooden platter, instead of with a goose egg upon a silver dish, as were the remainder of the company, and, denouncing it as an unforgivable insult, departed to seek assistance from his relatives and 'allies in Great Britain and the Continent. Returning with these a great battle was fought on the plains of Moyra, which lasted for six days, and in which the foreign invaders were routed and Congal was killed. The principal heroes of the chronicle were historical personages, but there were others of which there is no definite knowledge, and who probably owed their origin to the imagination of the bards, as in the Iliad and the Nibelungen Lied. Sir Samuel Ferguson's poem of Congal follows the main narrative of events in the original chronicle, but with an addition in the shape of a love episode between Lafinda, a sister of Sweeny, an Irish prince, and Congal, the introduction of several new characters, and of some supernatural episodes derived from the pagan mythology of Ireland. The narrative is made intelligible where it is obscure in the original, and incredible events, such as the chaining together of the warriors lest they should run away from each other, are omitted, while the tautology and verbiage of the language is eliminated. Its faithfulness as the reproduction of an ancient Celtic poem consists in the skill with which the characteristic style of language, its multiplied and doubled epithets, is renewed in English without the effect of archaism, and the reproduction of its heroic and primitive tone and spirit. Its original merits are the force and vigor of the narrative, the vivid descriptions of scenery, the strength and impressiveness of the supernatural figures, the genuine inspiration of battle in the combats, and the easy mastery of the "long, resounding line" in the verse. There is no modern poem which so thoroughly reproduces the ancient form and spirit of a bygone age, and in which so complete and accurate an idea can be obtained of the element of a vanished poetry as in Congal, and, as has been said, it is like a restoration in shape and substance of a ruined castle. The opening lines give a specimen of the style of the verse and the vigorous spirit of the measure:--

The Hosting here of Congal Claen. 'T was loud lark-car

oling May

When Congal, as the lark elate and radiant as the day,

Rode forth from steep Rath-Keltar gate.

Of the felicity with which these double descriptive epithets are used there are a thousand specimens, such as

The white-maned, proud-neck-arching tide;

and they give the dominant characteristic of the style as in the original, with a grace and appropriateness which make them a natural part of the English language. In order to show how the Celtic narrative has been transformed into English poetry without losing its characteristic features, the two accounts of the episode in the battle in which Sweeny becomes smitten with a frenzy of fear by supernatural visitation may be compared. This is the original:--

"Fits of giddiness came over him at _the sight_ of the horrors, grimness, and rapidity of the Gaels; at the looks, brilliance, and irksomeness of the foreigners; at the rebounding, furious shouts and bellowings of the various embattled tribes on both sides, rushing against and coming into collision with one another. Huge, flickering, horrible, aerial phantoms rose up, so that they were in curved, commingled crowds tormenting him; and in dense, rustling, clamorous, life-tormenting hordes, without ceasing; and in dismal, regular, aerial, storm-shrieking, hovering, fiend-like hosts, constantly in motion, shrieking and howling as they hovered about them in every direction, to cow and dismay cowards and soft youths, but to invigorate and mightily rouse champions and warriors; so that from the uproar of the battle, the frantic pranks of the demons, and the clashing of arms, the sound of heavy blows reverberating on the points of heroic spears, and keen edges of swords, and the war-like borders of broad shields, the noble hero Suibne was filled and intoxicated with tremor, horror, panic, dismay, fickleness, unsteadiness, fear, flightiness, giddiness, terror, and imbecility; so that there was not a joint or member of him from foot to head which was not converted into a confused, shaking mass, from the effect of fear and the panic of dismay. His feet trembled as if incessantly shaken by the force of a stream; his arms and various-edged weapons fell from him, the power of his hands having been enfeebled and relaxed around them, and rendered incapable of holding them. The inlets of hearing were quickened and expanded by the horrors of lunacy; the vigor of his brain in the cavities of his head was destroyed by the clamors of the conflict; his heart shrunk within him with the panic of dismay; his speech became faltering from the giddiness of imbecility; his very soul fluttered with hallucination, and with many and various phantoms, for that was the root and true basis of fear itself. He might be compared on this occasion to a salmon in a weir, or to a bird after being caught in the strait prison of a crib."

The following is the way in which this is rendered in Congal, Sweeny's offense having consisted in drowning the hermit Ere in the Boyne:--

To Sweeny as the hosts drew near, ere yet the fight should

join,

Seemed still, as if between them rolled the foam-strewed,

tawny Boyne.

And as the swiftly nearing hosts consumed the narrowing

space,

And arrow flights and javelin casts, and sword strokes came

in place,

Through all the rout of high-raised hands, and wrathful,

glaring eyes,

Erc's look of wrath, and lifted hand before him seemed to

rise,

Through all the hard-rebounding din from breasts of Gaels

and Gauls,

That jarred against the vault of heaven, when clashed the

brazen walls,

Through all the clangorous battle-calls, and death shouts

hoarse and high,

Erc's shriller curse he seemed to hear and Erc's despairing

cry.

Much did the hapless warrior strive to shake from breast

and brain

The illusion and the shameful wish fast-rising; but in vain;

The wish to fly seized all his limbs; the stronger dread of

shame,

Contending with the wish to fly, made spoil of all his frame.

His knees beneath him wavered as if shaken by the stress

Of a rapid running river; his heart, in fear's excess,

Sprang to and fro within him, as a wild bird newly caged,

Or a stream-ascending salmon in a strong weir's trap en

gaged.

Some of the single combats of the heroes, following the details of the narrative, are described with Homeric vigor, and the address of the King of Lochlan to the invading army, disheartened by apparitions, has the fire and spirit, as well as the form, of the Scandinavian runic verse: --

This is my sentence:

Fairy nor Fire-Drake

Keep back the Kemper

At home, in the burg,

Leaves he the maiden

Boon for the bridal;

Abroad, on the holme,

Leaves he the harvest,

Ripe for the reaper;

The bowl, on the board,

In the hall of the banquets,

Leaves he untasted,

When lances uplift

The foe in the field.

Noting the Norsemen

Out on the water-throng,

Hark! how the Eagle

Vaunts to the Vulture.

Spread thy wing, Scald-Neck,

Says she, and screams she;

Seest thou the Sea-Kings

Borne on the gannet-bath,

Going to garner

Every bird's eyrie?

Fell from her fishy-perch

Answers the Bald-Beak,

Scream no more, little cfne,

Feeders are coming.

Hearkening their colloquy,

Grins the grey beast,

The wolf on the wold.

This is my sentence:

These are the Norseman's

Pandect and canon.

Thyrfing is thirsty;

Quern-biter hungers;

Shield-walker wearieth

Shut in the scabbard.

This is my sentence:

Bring us to battle.

Perhaps, however, the greatest strength in Congal will be found in the dealing with the apparitions, the gigantic and malign demons, who haunt the hill and the stream, and represent the primitive imaginings of a race not yet emancipated from the terrors of the supernatural in the forces and forms of nature. These figures of ancient Irish poetry, the Herdsman Borcha, who swept down Finn's fortress with his staff, and counts the kine in the unconquered lands, the Giant Walker, who strides angrily around the hostile camp at night, and the Washer at the Ford, who dabbles with slain men's heads, live again in Ferguson's verse with their original reality and terror, and amid the setting of natural scenery from which their phantoms were created. This is the picture of the Giant Walker, whose apparition presaged doom to Cougal at his first night's camp:--

Around the Mound of Sighs

They filled the woody-sided vale; but no sweet sleep their

eyes

Refreshed that night; for all the night, around their echo

ing camp,

Was heard continuous from the hills a sound as of a tramp

Of giant footsteps; but so thick the white mist lay around

None saw the Walker save the King. He, starting at the

sound,.

Called to his foot his fierce red hound; athwart his shoulders

cast

A shaggy mantle, grasped his spear, and through the moon

light passed

Alone up dark Ben-Boli's heights, towards which, above the

woods,

With sound as when at close of eve the noise of falling floods

Is borne to shepherd's ear remote on stilly upland lawn,

The steps along the mountain-side with hollow sound came on.

Fast beat the hero's heart; and close, down-crouching by his

knee

Trembled the hound, while through the haze, huge as through

mists at sea,

The week-long sleepless mariner descries some mountain

cape,

Wreck-infamous, rise on his lee, appeared a monstrous shape

Striding impatient, like a man much grieved, who walks

alone

Considering of a grievous wrong; down from his shoulders

thrown

A mantle skirted stiff with soil, splashed from the miry

ground,

At every stride against his calves struck with as loud rebound

As makes the mainsail of a ship brought up along the blast,

When with the coil of all its ropes it beats the sounding

mast.

So, striding vast, the giant passed; the King held fast his

breath;

Motionless save his throbbing heart; and still and chill as

death

Stood listening while a second time the giant took his round

Of all the camp; but when, at length, the third time the

sound

Came up, and through the haze a third time huge and dim

Rose out the Shape, the valiant hound sprang forth and

challenged him.

And forth, disdaining that a dog should put him so to shame,

Sprang Congal and essayed to speak.

"Dread shadow, stand! Proclaim

What wouldst thou that thou thus around my camp shouldst

keep

Thy troublous vigil, banishing the wholesome gift of sleep

From all our eyes, who, though inured to dreadful sounds

and sights

By land and sea, have never yet in all our perilous nights

Lain the ward of such a guard."

The Shape made answer none,

But with stern wafture of his hand went angrier striding on,

Shaking the earth with heavier steps. Then Congal on his

track

Sprang fearless.

"Answer me, thou Churl,"he cried, "I bid thee back."

But, while he spoke, the giant's cloak around his shoulders

grew

Like a black-bulged thunder-cloud; and sudden out there

flew.

From all its angry, swelling folds, with uproar unconfined,

Direct against the King's pursuit a mighty blast of wind:

Loud flapped the mantle, tempest-lined, while fluttering

down the gale,

As leaves in Autumn, man and hound were swept into the vale,

And heard through all the huge uproar, through startled

Dalaray,.

The giant went with stamp and clash, departing south away.

A conspicuous feature of the excellence of Congal as an original poem is the vividness and faithfulness with which the natural scenery of Ireland is painted. The dark and barren hills, the tawny and foam-flecked streams, the misty seas, the vast and lonely raths and burial places of heroes, the emerald fields bathed with dew and glittering with sunshine, all the characteristics of Irish scenery, with their soul of meaning, which appeals to the heart as well as the outward form to the eye, are depicted with remarkable power, and make a living element in which the figures move. Almost every page has a touch of this skill, and every aspect of field and sea and sky is enlivened. As fine a specimen as any is this picture of an autumn champaign from a hilltop in Leinster:--

Such as one

Beholds, and thankful-hearted he, who casts abroad his gaze

O'er some rich tillage country-side, when mellow autumn

days

Gild all the sheaf y food-full stooks, and, broad before him

spread,--

He looking landward from the prow of some great sea-cape's

head

Bray or Ben-Edar--sees beneath in silent pageant grand

Slow fields of sunshine spread o'er fields of rich, corn-bearing

land;

Red glebe and meadow-margin green commingling to the

view,

With yellow stubble, browning woods, and upland tracts of

blue;--

Then, sated with the pomp of fields, turns seaward to the

verge

Where, mingling with the murmuring wash made by the

far-down surge,

Comes up the clangorous song of birds unseen, that, low be

neath

Poised off the rock, fly underfoot, and, mid the blossoming

heath,

And mint-sweet herb that loves the ledge rare-aired, at ease

reclined,

Surveys the wide, pale-heaving floor crisped by a curling

wind;

With all its shifty shadowing belts, and chasing scopes of

green,

Sun strewn, foam-freckled, sail-embossed, and blackening

squalls between,

And slant, cerulean-skirted showers, that with a drowsy

sound,

Heard inward, of ebullient waves, stalk all the horizon round.

With its faithfulness to tone and character, its skillful reproduction of style and language, its force and vigor of narrative, its forms of mythologie mysticism and its appreciation of the magic of nature, Congal is the most perfect reproduction of the form and spirit of ancient Celtic poetry in existence, and from it the English reader, who is not a Celtic student, can obtain the best knowledge of its pervading elements.

Congal is not the only contribution made by Sir Samuel Ferguson to Celtic poetry. The Lays of the Western Gael are a series of ballads founded on events in Celtic history and derived from the early chronicles and poems. They are original in form and substance, the ballad form and measure being unknown to the early Celtic poets of Ireland, but they preserve in a wonderful degree the ancient spirit, and give a picture of the ancient times with all the art of truth and verity. As I have said elsewhere 1:--