"This gift is overwhelming," said the satirist; and he dropped down dead.10

At another time during the same raid, there came a rash and reckless youngster to Cuchullin, aching for a fight. "Etarcomol remains looking at Cuchullin," runs the story." "What are you looking at?' said Cuchullin. 'You,' said Etarcomol. 'The eye soon compasses it indeed,' said Cuchullin. 'That is what I see,' said Etarcomol." He got his fight.

There is an American type of jest which runs something like this: "Here comes Cy.' 'Cy who?' 'Cy-clone.'" The Ulster cycle of Celtic sagas contains a number of such shifted meanings. Here is one, again from the Cattle-raid of Cualnge. The sons of Catalin attacked King Conchobar. One of them seized Conchobar's spear, and brandishing it cried, "Who will fall by this spear?" "A king will fall by it," chorused the sons of Catalin. Lugaid hurled the spear at Conchobar, but it struck only the charioteer. A little later his brother Erc tried a throw with the same spear. "Who will fall by this spear?" he howled. "A king will fall by it," chorused the gallant sons again. "So you said when Lugaid threw," objected Erc. "That is true," said they, "and the king of chariot-drivers fell!" "

Another anecdote, of these same Catalinians, leads us through puns into a bit of quiet irony. They attacked Cuchullin in unequal fight, and Fiacha, an exiled Ulsterman who was fighting on the Connaught side, could not bear to see his own countryman so unfairly beset. He pulled out his sword and "hit the nine and twenty hands off Catalin and his sons with one blow." "

"That was done quiet and easy, my good comrade," said Cuchullin. 'You may think it quiet and easy I was,' said Fiacha, ‘but if what I did is heard of in the camp, the reward that will fall on me will not be quiet and easy.'

10 Cattle-raid of Cualnge, edited and translated by Farraday, p. 60. The Cattle-raid is the chief story of the heroic cycle of Ulster, dealing with King Conchobar (who lived at the opening of the Christian era) and his illegitimate fairy-son Cuchullin. The translation is from the Book of the Ďun Cow (1100), the Book of Leinster (1160), and the Yellow Book of Lecan (fourteenth century). 11Ibid., p. 52.

12 Cuchullain of Murthemne, by Lady Gregory, p. 238. A modern version and secondary source, based on translations and folk stories. The later spelling of Medb is Maev. 13 Ibid., p. 221.

"I give you my word,' said Cuchullin, 'that now I have lifted my head and got my breath again, unless you tell tales on yourself, none of these men will tell tales on you.'

Then Cuchullin attacked them and killed all but one. "Glas the son of Delga got away and ran, but Cuchullin rushed after him and gave him a great blow. But he got as far as Ailill and Maev's tent, and all he could say was, Fiacha! Fiacha! before he fell dead.

"Fergus and Maev said, 'What debts are those he called out about?' for 'fiacha' is the word for a debt in Irish. 'I do not know indeed,' said Fergus, 'unless it might be someone in the camp owed him a debt and that it was on his mind.' 'That must have been so,' said Ailill. By my word,' said Fergus, 'however it was, all his debts are paid now.'”

The play of meaning in "fiacha" leading into the ironic platitude is delicious; unless you object to taking your puns and ironies from deathbed scenes.

But speaking of irony, here is a little touch of it, as dry and ingenious as George Eliot's own. It comes from the story of Mac Datho's Boar." The plot itself is humorous: MacDatho of Leinster had a wonderful hound, which was desired by Medb of Connaught and by Conchobar of Ulster. When the ambassadors came from those provinces making official request for the dog, MacDatho, knowing the peppery temper of his countrymen, trembled to offend either party by giving the animal to the other. In the quandary his wife-Strategy, thy name is woman! -offered the delicate solution of promising the dog to both sides and then stirring up a quarrel between them to fight it out. Accordingly, they planned to have the Connaughtmen and the Ulstonians arrive at the same time; which would mean a feast of the two armies together; which would necessitate deciding the awarding of the "hero's portion" of meat (the first choice); which would inevitably precipitate a battle royal. far the story-teller relates with naïve bluntness; and then comes this exquiste touch of irony:

So

"Then they slaughtered for them MacDatho's boar; for seven

14 Leahy, Heroic Romances of Ireland, Vol. 1, p. 41.

years had that boar been nurtured upon the milk of fifty cows, but surely venom must have entered into its nourishment, so many of the men of Ireland did it cause to die."

Of ironic raillery there is a rich specimen, more obvious and twinkling than this subtle bit, in the Old Irish wonder-tale, The Vision of MacConglinne,- written down in the Speckled Book of the fourteenth century and translated in 1892 by Kuno Meyer. Someone has called it "a veritable cockayne." A little dabbling in it will show the sparkle of its airy persiflage.

Upon a time the poet MacConglinne-he tells it himself— made a journey, after the fashion of poets, to Cork. He found the guest-house in horrible shape, and no one to visit him or honor him. He began reciting his poetry at the top of his voice; but everyone in Cork thought it was his neighbor singing, and paid no attention. "This came of original sin," says the poet, in neat sarcasm. "And of MacConglinne's hereditary sin; and of his own plain-working hard luck!"

About bedtime it occurred to the old Abbot of Cork that a guest was with them, and he ordered rations sent to him. The portion consisted of a cup of church whey-water. "Ah!" said MacConglinne when he saw the repast,

"My boy,

Why should we not have a duel in quatrains?

A quatrain compose on the bread,

And I will make one on the relish!"

The abbot was wroth at his impudence, and had him stripped and scourged and locked in the guest-house overnight; for Sunday eve's portion must not be mocked at, quoth the abbot, when there is the comfort of the morrow's psalms and preaching and alms-giving to look forward to!

MacConglinne took from his satchel two wheaten cakes and a slice of old bacon which he had brought with him. He proceeded to the comfort of almsgiving. He cut off the tenth part of each cake, "decently and justly." "Here are tithes, ye monks of Cork," he said; "to him who is poorest, let them be fed." And therewith he ate the tithes himself, and afterward the rest of his meal.

For this additional impudence the monks vowed to crucify

him; the last request that he said he wished to make was "my fill of generous juicy food and of tasty intoxicating ale, . . . . a gorging feast of a fortnight for me before going to the meeting with death!".

The monks left him alone overnight to repent of his sins. And "thereupon he shaped a little rhyme of his own," and in the morning he desired politely to relate a "vision" which had appeared to him. This is the rhyme he then recited :—

"Bless us, O cleric, famous pillar of learning,

Son of honey-bag, son of juice, son of lard,

Son of stirabout, son of pottage, son of fair speckled fruit clusters,
Son of smooth clustering cream, son of buttermilk, son of curds,
Son of beer (glory of liquors!), son of pleasant bragget,❞—

and so on through twenty-two lines, reciting the abbot's pedigree through all the foods that be, up to "son of Cain, son of Adam."

"That slander hurts me not, MacConglinne," said the monk. "It is not slander at all, O cleric!" said MacConglinne, politely, "but a vision that was manifested to me last night. And that is only the prelude!"

So the story goes rollicking on, lingering with fulsome wordiness over the impudent antics of MacConglinne. And at last he relates a fable of the Land of Food. He was invited to that place by a phantom who announced himself by warning the poet "not to let the gravy drown him!"

"What is your name, if we may ask," MacConglinne asked the sprite.

"Not hard to tell," said the phantom.

"Wheatlet, son of Milklet,

Son of juicy Bacon,

Is mine own name.

Honeyed Butter-roll
Is the man's name

That carries my bag.

Haunch of Mutton

Is my dog's name

Of lovely leaps.

"Lard, my wife,

Sweetly smiles

Across the kale top.
Cheese-curds my daughter
Goes across the spit,

Fair is her fame.
Corned Beef my son
Whose mantle shines

Over a big tail."

This story has swept us into the great bulk of facetiousness which is neither subtle nor vulgar, but just pure Irish. Half its charm comes from mere exaggeration of expression, and half of it comes from style. Examples of it occur in spurts throughout the literature; and there are several sustained burlesques, such as the Vision just reviewed, Bricriu's Feast, MacDatho's Boar, and The Proceedings of the Great Bardic Institution. Such exaggerations appeal especially to Americans, who revel in producing that very thing. But apt as Americans may be, their take-offs bungle a bit when compared with the flavorous Irish style. Compare, for example, "The sky's the limit!" or "We'll make Waterloo look like a Quaker meeting," with "Skin a flea for its hide and tallow and never bury the bones!"

Cuchullin, the Ulster hero, once upon a time, in the presence of admiring ladies performed the feat of setting up his spear, leaping into the air, and alighting nonchalantly in mid-air, his breast on the tip of the spear. And, says the story-teller," "he deemed it a trifling matter if that were his place of rest for the whole of the fair day."

In The Proceedings of the Great Bardic Institution, which is a comical "satire on the satirists," occur luscious bits of extravagant expression. Seanchan the leader of the poets, for instance, decided to partake of the excellent hospitality of Guaire, who had never been satirized; but, he said, "I will not take all that are here to him to spoil Connaught, for I shall consider it enough to take the two thirds of them and let one third remain ; and he did not take to Guaire but thrice fifty of the professors, thrice fifty students, thrice fifty hounds, thrice fifty male attendants, thrice fifty female relatives, and thrice nine of each class of artificers." This modest assembly arrived at Guaire's court in the character of unexpected guests, prepared to stay a year or so. If they did not receive sufficient welcome and attention, they could satirize the host and thus ruin him forever. No wonder that Guaire rushed out to meet them with open arms and rattled off the following incoherent and almost maudlin welcome:

15 Training of Cuchullain, translated by Whitley Stokes from a paper manuscript of 1715, Revue Celtique, Vol. 29, p. 118. A modern version of the story.