A Literary History of the English People | Page 9

shape of well-established texts, repeated word for word by men
whose avocation it was to know and remember, and who spent their
lives in exercising their memory. The corporation of the File, or seers,
was divided into ten classes, from the Oblar, who knew only seven
stories, to the Ollam, who knew three hundred and fifty.[13] Unlike the
bards, the File never invented, they remembered; they were obliged to
know, not any stories whatsoever, but certain particular tales; lists of
them have been found, and not a few of the stories entered in these
catalogues have come down to us.
If we look through the collections that have been made of them, we can
see that the Celtic authors of that period are already remarkable for
qualities that have since shone with extreme brilliancy among various
nations belonging to the same race: the sense of form and beauty, the
dramatic gift, fertility of invention.[14] This is all the more noticeable
as the epoch was a barbarous one, and a multitude of passages recall
the wild savageness of the people. We find in these legends as many
scenes of slaughter and ferocious deeds as in the oldest Germanic
poems: Provincia ferox, said Tacitus of Britain. The time is still distant
when woman shall become a deity; the murder of a man is
compensated by twenty-one head of cattle, and the murder of a woman
by three head only.[15] The warlike valour of the heroes is carried as
far as human nature and imagination allow; not even Roland or Ragnar
Lodbrok die more heroically than Cuchulaïnn, who, mortally wounded,
dies standing:
"He fixed his eye on this hostile group. Then he leaned himself against
the high stone in the plain, and, by means of his belt, he fastened his
body to the high stone. Neither sitting nor lying would he die; but he
would die standing. Then his enemies gathered round him. They
remained about him, not daring to approach; he seemed to be still

alive."[16]
At the same time, things of beauty have their place in these tales. There
are birds and flowers; women are described with loving admiration;
their cheeks are purple "as the fox-glove," their locks wave in the light.
Above all, such a dramatic gift is displayed as to stand unparalleled in
any European literature at its dawn.[17] Celtic poets excel in the art of
giving a lifelike representation of deeds and events, of graduating their
effects, and making their characters talk; they are matchless for
speeches and quick repartees. Compositions have come down to us that
are all cut out into dialogues, so that the narrative becomes a drama. In
such tales as the "Murder of the Sons of Usnech," or "Cuchulaïnn's
Sickness," in which love finds a place, these remarkable traits are to be
seen at their best. The story of "Mac Datho's Pig" is as powerfully
dramatic and savage as the most cruel Germanic or Scandinavian songs;
but it is at the same time infinitely more varied in tone and artistic in
shape. Pictures of everyday life, familiar fireside discussions abound,
together with the scenes of blood loved by all nations in the season of
their early manhood.
"There was," we read, "a famous king of Leinster, called Mac Datho.
This king owned a dog, Ailbe by name, who defended the whole
province and filled Erin with his fame."[18] Ailill, king of Connaught,
and Conchobar, king of Ulster, claim the dog; and Mac Datho, much
perplexed, consults his wife, who suggests that he should promise
Ailbe to both. On the appointed day, the warriors of the two countries
come to fetch the dog of renown, and a grand banquet is served them
by Mac Datho, the principal dish of which is a rare kind of pig--"three
hundred cows had fed him for seven years." Scarcely are the guests
seated, when the dialogues begin:
"That pig looks good," says Conchobar.
"Truly, yes," replies Ailill; "but, Conchobar, how shall he be carved?"
"What more simple in this hall, where sit the glorious heroes of Erin?"
cried, from his couch, Bricriu, son of Carbad. "To each his share,

according to his fights and deeds. But ere the shares are distributed,
more than one rap on the nose will have been given and received."
"So be it," said Ailill.
"'Tis fair," said Conchobar. "We have with us the warriors who
defended our frontiers."
Then each one rises in turn and claims the honour of carving: I did
this.--I did still more.--I slew thy father.--I slew thy eldest son.--I gave
thee that wound that still aches.
The warrior Cet had just told his awful exploits when Conall of Ulster
rises against him and says:
"Since the day I first bore a spear, not often have I lacked the head of a
man