There is an amusing legend preserved in Ossianic tradition of the
encounter between Seanchan, the celebrated chief poet of Ireland, and
the King of all the Cats, who dwelt in a cave near Clonmacnoise.
In ancient Ireland the men of learning were esteemed beyond all other
classes; all the great ollaves and professors and poets held the very
highest social position, and took precedence of the nobles, and ranked
next to royalty. The leading men amongst them lived luxuriously in
the great Bardic House; and when they went abroad through the country
they travelled with a train of minor bards, fifty or more, and were
entertained free of cost by the kings and chiefs, who considered
themselves highly honoured by the presence of so distinguished a
company at their court. If the receptions were splendid and costly,
the praise of the entertainer was chanted by all the poets at the
feast; but if any slight were offered, then the Ard-Filé poured forth
his stinging satire in such bitter odes, that many declared they would
sooner die than incur the anger of the poets or be made the subject of
their scathing satire.
All the learned men and professors, the ollaves of music, poetry,
oratory, and of the arts and sciences generally, formed a great Bardic
Association, who elected their own president, with the title of Chief
Poet of all Ireland, and they also elected chief poets for each of
the provinces. Learned women, likewise, and poetesses, were included
in the Bardic Association, with distinct and recognized privileges,
both as to revenue and costly apparel. Legal enactments even were
made respecting the number of colours allowed to be worn in their
mantles—the poet being allowed six colours, and the poetess five in her
robe and mantle; the number of colours being a distinct recognition
and visible sign of rank, and therefore very highly esteemed. But, in
time, as a consequence of their many and great privileges, the pride
and insolence of the learned class, the ollamhs, poets, and poetesses,
became so insufferable, that even the kings trembled before them. This
is shown in the Ossianic tale, from which we may gather that Seanchan
the Bard, when entertained at the court of King Guaire, grew jealous of
the attention paid to the nobles while he was present. So he sulked at
the festival, and made himself eminently disagreeable, as will be seen
by the following legend:—
When Seanchan, the renowned Bard, was made _Ard-Filé_, or Chief Poet of
Ireland, Guaire, the king of Connaught, to do him honour, made a great
feast for him and the whole Bardic Association. And all the professors
went to the king’s house, the great ollaves of poetry and history and
music, and of the arts and sciences; and the learned, aged females,
Grug and Grag and Grangait; and all the chief poets and poetesses of
Ireland, an amazing number. But Guaire the king entertained them all
splendidly, so that the ancient pathway to his palace is still called
“The Road of the Dishes.”
And each day he asked, “How fares it with my noble guests?” But they
were all discontented, and wanted things he could not get for them.
So he was very sorrowful, and prayed to God to be delivered from “the
learned men and women, a vexatious class.”
Still the feast went on for three days and three nights. And they drank
and made merry. And the whole Bardic Association entertained the nobles
with the choicest music and professional accomplishments.
But Seanchan sulked and would neither eat nor drink, for he was jealous
of the nobles of Connaught. And when he saw how much they consumed of
the best meats and wine, he declared he would taste no food till they
and their servants were all sent away out of the house.
And when Guaire asked him again, “How fares my noble guest, and this
great and excellent people?” Seanchan answered, “I have never had worse
days, nor worse nights, nor worse dinners in my life.” And he ate
nothing for three whole days.
Then the king was sorely grieved that the whole Bardic Association
should be feasting and drinking while Seanchan, the chief poet of Erin,
was fasting and weak. So he sent his favourite serving-man, a person of
mild manners and cleanliness, to offer special dishes to the bard.
“Take them away,” said Seanchan; “I’ll have none of them.”
“And why, oh, Royal Bard?” asked the servitor.
“Because thou art an uncomely youth,” answered Seanchan. “Thy
grandfather was chip-nailed—I have seen him; I shall eat no food from
thy hands.”
Then the king called a beautiful maiden to him, his foster daughter,
and said, “Lady, bring thou this wheaten cake and this dish of salmon
to the illustrious poet, and serve him thyself.” So the maiden went.
But when Seanchan saw her he asked: “Who sent thee hither, and why hast
thou brought me food?”
“My lord the king sent me, oh, Royal Bard,” she answered, “because I
am comely to look upon, and he bade me serve thee with food myself.”
“Take it away,” said Seanchan, “thou art an unseemly girl, I know of
none more ugly. I have seen thy grandmother; she sat on a wall one day
and pointed out the way with her hand to some travelling lepers. How
could I touch thy food?” So the maiden went away in sorrow.
And then Guaire the king was indeed angry, and he exclaimed, “My
malediction on the mouth that uttered that! May the kiss of a leper be
on Seanchan’s lips before he dies!”
Now there was a young serving-girl there, and she said to Seanchan,
“There is a hen’s egg in the place, my lord, may I bring it to thee,
oh, Chief Bard?”
“It will suffice,” said Seanchan; “bring it that I may eat.”
But when she went to look for it, behold the egg was gone.
“Thou hast eaten it,” said the bard, in wrath.
“Not so, my lord,” she answered; “but the mice, the nimble race, have
carried it away.”
“Then I will satirize them in a poem,” said Seanchan; and forthwith he
chanted so bitter a satire against them that ten mice fell dead at once
in his presence.
“’Tis well,” said Seanchan; “but the cat is the one most to blame,
for it was her duty to suppress the mice. Therefore I shall satirize
the tribe of the cats, and their chief lord, Irusan, son of Arusan.
For I know where he lives with his wife Spit-fire, and his daughter
Sharp-tooth, with her brothers, the Purrer and the Growler. But I shall
begin with Irusan himself, for he is king, and answerable for all the
cats.”
And he said—“Irusan, monster of claws, who strikes at the mouse, but
lets it go; weakest of cats. The otter did well who bit off the tips of
thy progenitor’s ears, so that every cat since is jagged-eared. Let thy
tail hang down; it is right, for the mouse jeers at thee.”
Now Irusan heard these words in his cave, and he said to his daughter,
Sharp-tooth: “Seanchan has satirized me, but I will be avenged.”
“Nay, father,” she said, “bring him here alive, that we may all take
our revenge.”
“I shall go then and bring him,” said Irusan; “so send thy brothers
after me.”
Now when it was told to Seanchan that the King of the Cats was on his
way to come and kill him, he was timorous, and besought Guaire and all
the nobles to stand by and protect him. And before long a vibrating,
impressive, impetuous sound was heard, like a raging tempest of fire
in full blaze. And when the cat appeared he seemed to them of the
size of a bullock; and this was his appearance—rapacious, panting,
jagged-eared, snub-nosed, sharp-toothed, nimble, angry, vindictive,
glare-eyed, terrible, sharp-clawed. Such was his similitude. But he
passed on amongst them, not minding till he came to Seanchan; and him
he seized by the arm and jerked him up on his back, and made off the
way he came before any one could touch him; for he had no other object
in view but to get hold of the poet.
Now Seanchan, being in evil plight, had recourse to flattery. “Oh,
Irusan,” he exclaimed, “how truly splendid thou art, such running, such
leaps, such strength, and such agility! But what evil have I done, oh,
Irusan, son of Arusan? spare me, I entreat. I invoke the saints between
thee and me, oh, great King of the Cats.”
But not a bit did the cat let go his hold for all this fine talk, but
went straight on to Clonmacnoise where there was a forge; and St.
Kieran happened to be there standing at the door.
“What!” exclaimed the saint; “is that the Chief Bard of Erin on the
back of a cat? Has Guaire’s hospitality ended in this?” And he ran for
a red-hot bar of iron that was in the furnace, and struck the cat on
the side with it, so that the iron passed through him, and he fell down
lifeless.
“Now my curse on the hand that gave that blow!” said the bard, when he
got upon his feet.
“And wherefore?” asked St. Kieran.
“Because,” answered Seanchan, “I would rather Irusan had killed me, and
eaten me every bit, that so I might bring disgrace on Guaire for the
bad food he gave me; for it was all owing to his wretched dinners that
I got into this plight.”
And when all the other kings heard of Seanchan’s misfortunes, they sent
to beg he would visit their courts. But he would have neither kiss nor
welcome from them, and went on his way to the bardic mansion, where the
best of good living was always to be had. And ever after the kings were
afraid to offend Seanchan.
So as long as he lived he had the chief place at the feast, and all
the nobles there were made to sit below him, and Seanchan was content.
And in time he and Guaire were reconciled; and Seanchan and all the
ollamhs, and the whole Bardic Association, were feasted by the king
for thirty days in noble style, and had the choicest of viands and the
best of French wines to drink, served in goblets of silver. And in
return for his splendid hospitality the Bardic Association decreed,
unanimously, a vote of thanks to the king. And they praised him in
poems as “Guaire the Generous,” by which name he was ever after known
in history, for the words of the poet are immortal.