horror upon horror. She tries to eat up the hospitable trout woman who
gives her lodging; she has twins from her own father; she tries to
eat her own children; she brings them to commit matricide under cruel
conditions. The house of Pelops and Lot’s daughters, combined, barely
match her. If the tale of Wimaloimis had belonged to early Greece, and
had survived till the time of the Attic tragedians, the real nature
of the actors in it would have been lost, in all likelihood, and then
it might have served as a striking example of sin and its punishment.
Instead of discovering who the _dramatis personæ_ were really, the people
of that time would have made them all human. In our day, we try to
discover the point of view of the old myth-maker, to learn what it really
was that he dealt with. In case we succeed, we are able to see that many
of the repulsive features of ancient myths were not only natural and
explicable, but absolutely unavoidable. The cloud, a grisly bear, is
a true daughter of the sun. The sun and the cloud are undoubtedly the
parents of the twin brothers, Thunder and Lightning; there are no other
parents possible for them. That the cloud, according to myth description,
tried to devour her own children, and was destroyed at last, and torn
to pieces by them, is quite true. When we know the real elements of the
tale, we find it perfectly accurate and truthful. If the personages in it
were represented as human, it would become at once, what many a tale like
it is made to be, repulsive and horrible.
Among Gaelic tales there are few in which the heroes are of the earliest
period, though there are many in which primitive elements are prominent,
and some in which they predominate. In a time sufficiently remote,
Gaelic tales were made up altogether of the adventures of non-human
heroes similar to those in the tales of America,—that is, heroes in the
character of beasts, birds, and other living creatures, as well as the
phenomena and elements of nature.
Beasts and birds are frequent in Gaelic tales yet; but they never fill
the chief rôle in any tale. At most they are friends of the hero, and
help him; not infrequently he could not gain victory without them. If on
the bad side, the rôle is more prominent, a monster, or terrible beast,
may be the leading opponent, or be one in a series of powerful enemies.
In a few Gaelic tales, phenomena or processes of nature appear still as
chief actors; but they appear in human guise. The two tales in which this
position is most evident, are those of Mor and Glas Gainach,—not the tale
of Mor as given in this volume, but an older tale, and one which, so far
as I know, exists only in fragments and sayings. This tale of Mor, which
I gathered bit by bit in one place and another through West Kerry, is, in
substance, as follows:
Mor (big), a very large woman, came by sea to Dunmore Head, with her
husband, Lear, who could not live with Mor, and went around by sea to the
extreme north, where he stayed, thus putting, as the phrase runs, “All
Ireland between himself and the wife.” Mor had sons, and lived at Dun
Quin (the ruins of her house Tivorye [Mor’s house], are shown yet) at the
foot of Mount Eagle. She lived on pleasantly; much came to her from the
sea. She was very proud of her sons, and cared for no one in the world
except them. The woman increased greatly in substance, was rich and happy
till her sons were enticed away, and went to sea.
One day, she climbed to the top of Mount Eagle, and, for the first time,
saw Dingle Bay with the highlands of Iveragh and Killarney. “Oh, but
isn’t Erin the big country; isn’t it widely spread out!” cried she. Mor
was enormously bulky, and exerted herself to the utmost in climbing the
mountain. At the top, certain necessities of nature came on her; as a
result of relieving these, a number of deep gullies were made in Mount
Eagle, in various directions. These serve to this day as water-courses;
and torrents go through them to the ocean during rainfalls.
News was brought to Mor on the mountain that her sons had been enticed
away to sea by magic and deceit. Left alone, all her power and
property vanished; she withered, lost her strength, went mad, and then
disappeared, no man knew whither. “All that she had came by the sea,”
as people say, “and went with the sea.” She who had been disagreeable
and proud to such a degree that her own husband had to leave her; the
woman whose delight was in her children and her wealth,—became the most
desolate person in Erin, childless, destitute, a famishing maniac that
disappeared without a trace.
There is an interesting variant to this story, referring to Lear, Mor’s
husband. This represents him not as going to the other end of Erin, but
as stopping where he touched land first; there he died, and was buried.
This is the version confirmed by the grave mound at Dunmore Head.
From the artistic point of view, it is to be regretted that the tale
of Mor has not come down to us complete with its variants; but we may
be thankful for what we have. The fragments extant, and the sayings,
establish the character of the tale, especially in view of a most
interesting bit of testimony preserved in a book published in 1757.
After I had collected all the discoverable scraps and remnants of the
tale, I came upon the statement in Smith’s “History of Kerry,” page 182,
that Dunmore Head was called by the people thereabout, “Mary Geerane’s
house.” The author adds the name in Gaelic (which he did not know), in
the following incorrect form: “Ty-Vorney Geerane.” Now this sentence does
not mean Mary Geerane’s house at all, but the house of Mor, daughter of
the sun, Tigh Mhoire ni Greine, pronounced, “Thee Vorye nyee Grainye.”
Here is the final fact needed,—a fact preserved with an ignorance of its
nature and value that is absolutely trustworthy.
What does the story mean now? Mor, daughter of the sun, leaves her
husband, Lear, and comes to land herself. The husband cannot follow; for
Lear is the plain of the sea,—the sea itself in its outward aspect. Lear
is the Neptune of the Gaels. One version represents Lear as coming to his
end at Dunmore Head; the other, as going around the island to Donaghedee,
to live separated from a proud and disagreeable wife by the land of all
Ireland. Each of these variants is equally consonant with the character
of the couple. Let us pursue the tale further. Mor, the cloud woman,—for
this she is,—has issue at Dun Quin, has sons (the rain-drops), and is
prosperous, is proud of her sons, cares only for them; but her sons
cannot stay with her, they are drawn to the sea irresistibly. She climbs
Mount Eagle, is amazed at the view from the summit, sits down there and
performs her last act on earth, the result of which is those tortuous
and remarkably deep channels on the sides of Mount Eagle. After that she
hears on the mountain that her sons are gone, she vanishes from human
ken, is borne out of sight from the top of Mount Eagle.
Such is the myth of the cloud woman, Mor (the big one), a thing of wonder
for the people.
In “Glas Gainach,” with which this volume opens, we have, perhaps, the
best tale preserved by memory in Ireland. The tale itself is perfect,
apparently, and its elements are ancient.
The prize for exertion, the motive for action, in this tale, is a present
from King Under the Wave to his friend the King of Spain. This King of
Spain is, of course, supposititious. Who the former friend was whose
place he usurped, we have no means of knowing; but we shall not be far
out of the way, I think, if we consider him to be the monarch of a
cloud-land,—a realm as intangible as the Nephelokokkygia of Aristophanes,
but real.
In Elin Gow, the swordsmith, we have a character quite as primitive
as the cow or her owners. Elin Gow is found in Scotland as well as in
Ireland. Ellin Gowan’s Height, in Guy Mannering, is simply Elin Gow’s
Height, _Gowan_ (_Gobhan_ in Gaelic) being merely the genitive case of
_Gow_ (_Gobha_). Elin Gow means simply Elin the smith. Under whatever
name, or wherever he may be, Elin Gow occupies a position in Gaelic
similar to that of Hephæstos in Greek, or Vulcan in Latin mythology; he
is the maker of weapons, the forger of the bolt.
In a short tale of Glas Gavlen, which I obtained near Carrick, County
Donegal, it is stated that the cow came down from the sky. According to
the tale, she gives milk in unlimited quantities to all people without
exception. Time after time the rich or powerful try to keep her for
their own use exclusively, but she escapes. Appearing first at Dun
Kinealy, she goes finally to Glen Columkil near the ocean, where a strong
man tries to confine her; but she rises in the air, and, clearing the
high ridge on the northern side of the glen, disappears. Since then,
there is no free milk in Erin, and none but that which common cows give.
The cow, Glas Gainach or Gaunach or Gavlen, for all three refer to the
same beast, betrays at once her relationship with those cows of India so
famous in the Rig Veda, those cloud cows whose milk was rain, cows which
the demon Vritra used to steal and hide away, thus causing drought and
suffering. Indra brought death to this demon with a lightning bolt; for
this deed he received the name Vritrahan (slayer of Vritra). The cows
were freed then from confinement; and the world was refreshed by their
milk, which came to all, rich and poor, in like manner. So far the main
characters of the tale are quite recognizable. Cian and Cormac are simply
names current in Irish history, and are substituted for names of original
heroes, who were characters as far from human and as mythologic as King
Under the Wave or Glas Gainach.
A comparison of Gaelic tales with the Indian tales of America shows that
the Gaelic contain materials some of which is as ancient as the Indian,
while the tales themselves are less primitive.
There are many Indian tales which we can analyze, genuine myths,—a myth,
in its earliest form, being a tale the substance of which is an account
of some process in nature, or some collision between forces in nature,
the whole account being given as a narrative of personal adventure.
Among the Irish tales there are very few ancient myths pure and simple,
though there are many made up of myth materials altogether. The tale
of Mor, reconstructed from fragments, is a myth from beginning to end;
the history of a cloud in the guise of a woman, as Glas Gainach is the
history of a cloud in the guise of a cow.
Tales like Glas Gainach and Mor are not frequent in Gaelic at present;
but tales of modified structure, composite tales to which something
has been added, and from which something has been taken away, are met
with oftener than any. The elements added or taken away are not modern,
however; they are, if we except certain heroes, quite ancient.
In course of time, and through change of religion, ancient heroes were
forgotten in some cases, rejected in others, and new ones substituted;
when the argument of a tale, or part of it, grew less distinct, it was
strengthened from the general stock, made more complete and vivid. In
this way came adventure tales, constructed of materials purely mythic
and ancient. Parts were transferred from one tale to another, the same
incidents and heroes being found in tales quite different in other
respects.
The results to be obtained from a comparison of systems of thought
like the Indian and the Gaelic would be great, if made thoroughly. If
extended to all races, such a comparison would render possible a history
of the human mind in a form such as few men at present even dream of,—a
history with a basis as firm as that which lies under geology. If this
work is to be accomplished, we must make large additions indeed to our
knowledge of primitive peoples. We must complete the work begun in
America. We must collect the great tales of Africa, Asia, and the islands
of the Pacific,—tales which embody the philosophy of the races that made
them. The undertaking is arduous, and there is need to engage in it
promptly. The forces of civilized society, at present, are destroying
on all sides, not saving that which is precious in primitive people.
Civilized society supposes that man, in an early degree of development,
should be stripped of all that he owns, both material and mental, and
then be refashioned to serve the society that stripped him. If he will
not yield to the stripping and training, then slay him.
In view of this state of things, there is no time for delay; primitive
man is changing, and the work is extensive.
Of Chinese thought we know very little, especially of Taoism, the most
ancient system of the country,—the one which has grown up from Chinese
myth-tales. Of African tales, only few have been collected, and those of
small value mainly.
In Asia and Eastern Europe, the Russians have done the best work by far;
besides many good volumes of Slav tales, they have given us much from
the Tartars and Mongols of exceptional value and ancient. In the United
States, little was accomplished till recent years; of late, however,
public interest has been roused somewhat, and, since Major Powell entered
the field, and became Director of the Bureau of Ethnology, more has been
done in studying the native races of America than had been done from the
discovery of the country up to that time.
To sum up, we may say, that the Indian tales reveal to us a whole system
of religion, philosophy, and social polity. They take us back to the
beginning of things; they describe Creation and the establishment of the
present order in the world.
Those tales form a complete series. The whole mental and social life
of the race to which they belong is evident in them. The Gaelic tales
are a fragment of a former system. The earliest tales in that system
are lost; those which formed the Creation myth, and related directly to
the ancient faith and religious practices of the Gaels, were set aside
and prohibited at the introduction of Christianity. In many of those
that remained, leading heroes were changed by design, or forgotten, and
others put in their places. In general, they were modified consciously
and unconsciously,—some greatly, others to a less degree, and a few very
little.
We find various resemblances in the two systems, some of which are very
striking in details, and others in general features; the question,
therefore, rises readily enough: Can we not use the complete system to
aid us in explaining and reconstructing, in some degree, the imperfect
one? We can undoubtedly; and if to materials preserved by oral tradition,
like those in this volume, be added manuscript tales, and those scattered
through chronicles ecclesiastical and secular, we may hope to give some
idea of what the ancient system of Gaelic thought was, and discover
whether the Gaelic gods had a similar origin with the Indian. What is
true of the Gaelic is true also of other ancient systems in Europe, such
as the Slav and Teutonic. These have much less literary material than the
Gaelic; but the Slav has vastly greater stores of oral tradition, and
tales which contain much precious thought from pre-Christian ages.
During eight years of investigation among Indian tribes in North America,
I obtained the various parts of that Creation myth mentioned in this
introduction, from tribes that were remote from one another, and in
different degrees of development. Such tales I found in the east, in
the central regions, and finally in California and Oregon. Over this
space, the extreme points of which are three thousand miles apart, each
tribe has the Creation myth,—one portion being brought out with special
emphasis in one tribe, and another portion in a different one. In tribes
least developed, the earliest tales are very distinct, and specially
valuable on some points relating to the origin and fall of the gods.
Materials from the extreme west are more archaic and simple than those
of the east. In fact the two regions present the two extremes, in North
America, of least developed and most developed aboriginal thought.
In this is their interest. They form one complete system, a single
conception richly illustrated.
Shall we find among tribes of Africa, Australia, and the Pacific Islands,
tales which are component parts of great Creation myths like that of
North America? We shall find them no doubt, if we spend time and skilled
labor sufficient.
The discovery and collection of these materials, and the proper use of
them afterward, constitute, for scientific zeal and activity, a task as
important as self-knowledge is important to man.
* * * * *
In 1887, I made a journey to Ireland; when I collected tales from which
were selected the twenty forming the “Myths and Folk-lore of Ireland,”
Boston, Little, Brown, and Company, 1889. While in Ireland, during that
first visit, and this one, I have met with much good will and kindness
which are pleasant to remember.
I must mention, to begin with, my indebtedness to Rev. P. A. Walsh, of
the St. Vincent Fathers, Cork, a widely known Gaelic scholar, and a man
whose acquaintance with the South of Ireland is extensive and intimate.
Father Walsh gave me much information concerning the people, and letters
to priests. I am greatly obliged to J. J. MacSweeny, Esq., of the Royal
Irish Academy, for help in many ways, and for letters to people in
Donegal. To Rev. Eugene O’Growney, Professor of Gaelic at Maynooth, I am
grateful for letters and advice.
If I were to mention all who have done me deeds of kindness, the list
would be long indeed. I must name, however, in Dingle, the venerable
Canon O’Sullivan and Father Scollard, in Bally Ferriter, Rev. John
O’Leary. To Mr. Patrick Ferriter, of Dingle, a man of keen intelligence
and an excellent Gaelic scholar, I am deeply indebted for assistance
in Gaelic. Canon Brosnan, of Cahirciveen, placed all his knowledge of
the region where he lives at my service, and on one occasion led in an
unwilling story-teller. Father MacDevitt, of Carrick, County Donegal,
assisted me much in his neighborhood. Rev. James MacFadden, of Glena,
County Donegal, and his curate, Rev. John Boyle, of Falcarra, helped me
effectively, and showed the most courteous hospitality. I should return
special thanks to Prof. Brian O’Looney, of Dublin, whose knowledge of
ancient Gaelic lore is unmatched, and who at all times was as willing as
he was able to aid me.
In America, the list of my obligations is short; there is only one man
on that continent to whom thanks are due in connection with this volume,
but that man, like the hero in Gaelic tales, was worth more than the
thousands on all four sides of him. The contents of this book would not
have been collected without the co-operation of Hon. Charles A. Dana, who
published fifty of these Gaelic tales in the Sunday edition of “The Sun.”
At that time no other editor was willing to join in the enterprise; and
I did not feel able to endure both the financial burden and the labor of
finding and collecting Gaelic tales, as I had done in 1887. Mr. Dana,
with his keen eye for literary character, noted at once in the “Myths and
Folk-lore” the originality of Gaelic tales and their heroes. When I told
him that relics like the Cuculin and Gilla na Grakin of my first book
were on the verge of extinction, he joined hands with me to save them,
and I set out on my second journey to Ireland.
JEREMIAH CURTIN.
LONDON, ENGLAND, August, 1894.
HERO-TALES OF IRELAND.
ELIN GOW, THE SWORDSMITH FROM ERIN, AND THE COW GLAS GAINACH.
Once King Under the Wave went on a visit to the King of Spain, for the
two were great friends. The King of Spain was complaining, and very sorry
that he had not butter enough. He had a great herd of cows; but for all
that, he had not what butter he wanted. He said that he’d be the richest
man in the world if he had butter in plenty for himself and his people.
“Do not trouble your mind,” said King Under the Wave. “I will give you
Glas Gainach,—a cow that is better than a thousand cows, and her milk is
nearly all butter.”
The King of Spain thanked his guest for the promise, and was very glad.
King Under the Wave kept his word; he sent Glas Gainach, and a messenger
with instructions how to care for the cow, and said that if she was
angered in any way she would not stay out at pasture. So the king took
great care of her; and the report went through all nations that the King
of Spain had the cow called Glas Gainach.
The King of Spain had an only daughter, and he was to give the cow with
the daughter; and the cow was a great fortune, the best dower in the
world at that time. The king said that the man who would do what he put
on him would get the daughter and the cow.
Champions came from every part of the world, each man to try his fortune.
In a short time hundreds and thousands of men lost their heads in combat.
The king agreed then that any man who would serve seven years, and bring
the cow safe and sound every day of that time to the castle, would have
her.
In minding the cow, the man had to follow her always, never go before
her, or stop her, or hold her. If he did, she would run home to the
castle. The man must stop with her when she wanted to get a bite or a
drink. She never travelled less than sixty miles a day, eating a good
bite here and a good bite there, and going hither and over.
The King of Spain never told men how to mind the cow; he wanted them to
lose their heads, for then he got their work without wages.
One man would mind her for a day; another would follow her to the castle
for two days; a third might go with her for a week, and sometimes a man
could not come home with her the first day. The man should be loose and
swift to keep up with Glas Gainach. The day she walked least she walked
sixty miles; some days she walked much more.
It was known in Erin that there was such a cow, and there was a smith in
Cluainte above here, three miles north of Fintra, and his name was Elin
Gow. He was the best man in Erin to make a sword or any weapon of combat.
From all parts of Erin, and from other lands also, young princes who were
going to seek their fortunes came to him to have him make swords for
them. Now what should happen but this? It came to him in a dream three
nights in succession that he was to go for Glas Gainach, the wonderful
cow. At last he said, “I will go and knock a trial out of her; I will go
toward her.”
He went to Tramor, where there were some vessels. It was to the King of
Munster that he went, and asked would he lend him a vessel. Elin Gow
had made many swords for the king. The king said that he would lend the
vessel with willingness, and that if he could do more for him he would
do it. Elin Gow got the vessel, and put stores in it for a day and a
year. He turned its prow then to sea and its stern to land, and was
ploughing the main ocean till he steered into the kingdom of Spain as
well as if he had had three pilots, and there was no one but himself in
it. He let the wind guide the ship, and she came into the very harbor of
the province where the king’s castle was.
When Elin Gow came in, he cast two anchors at the ocean side and one at
the shore side, and settled the ship in such a way that there was not a
wave to strike her, nor a wind to rock her, nor a crow to drop on her;
and he left her so that nothing would disturb her, and a fine, smooth
strand before her: he left her fixed for a day and a year, though he
might not be absent an hour.
He left the vessel about midday, and went his way walking, not knowing
where was he or in what kingdom. He met no man or beast in the place.
Late in the evening he saw, on a broad green field at a distance, a
beautiful castle, the grandest he had ever set eyes on.
When he drew near the castle, the first house he found was a cottage at
the wayside; and when he was passing, who should see him but a very old
man inside in the cottage. The old man rose up, and putting his two
hands on the jambs of the door, reached out his head and hailed him. Elin
Gow turned on his heel; then the old man beckoned to him to enter.
There were four men in front of the castle, champions of valor,
practising feats of arms. Flashes of light came from their swords. These
men were so trained that they would not let a sword-stroke touch any part
of their bodies.
“Come in,” said the old man; “maybe you would like to have dinner. You
have eaten nothing on the way.”
“That was a mistake of my own,” said Elin Gow; “for in my ship are
provisions of all kinds in plenty.”
“Never mind,” said the old man; “you will not need them in this place;”
and going to a chest, he took out a cloth which he spread on a table, and
that moment there came on it food for a king or a champion. Elin Gow had
never seen a better dinner in Erin.
“What is your name and from what place are you?” asked the old man of his
guest.
“From Erin,” said he, “and my name is Elin Gow. What country is this, and
what castle is that out before us?”
“Have you ever heard talk of the kingdom of Spain?” asked the old man.
“I have, and ’tis to find it that I left home.”
“Well, this is the kingdom of Spain, and that building beyond is the
castle of the king.”
“And is it here that Glas Gainach is?”
“It is,” said the old man. “And is it for her that you left Erin?”
“It is then,” said Elin Gow.