s, and mountains of Ireland. Every
description of them, and of life among them, is done with a loving,
observant touch; and moreover, the veil of magic charm is thrown over
all the land by the creation in it of the life and indwelling of the
fairy host. The Fianna loved their country well.

When Christianity came, this deep-set sentiment did not lessen. It
grew even stronger, and in exile it became a passion. It is
illustrated by the songs of deep regret and affection Columba made in
Iona, from whose rocky shores he looked day after day towards the west
while the mists rose over Ireland. One little story of great beauty
enshrines his passion. One morning he called to his side one of his
monks, and said, "Go to the margin of the sea on the western side of
our isle; and there, coming from the north of Ireland, you will see a
voyaging crane, very weary and beaten by the storms, and it will fall
at your feet on the beach. Lift it up with pity and carry it to the
hut, nourish it for three days, and when it is refreshed and strong
again it will care no more to stay with us in exile, but to fly back
to sweet Ireland, the dear country where it was born. I charge you
thus, for it comes from the land where I was born myself." And when
his servant returned, having done as he was ordered, Columba said,
"May God bless you, my son. Since you have well cared for our exiled
guest, you will see it return to its own land in three days." And so
it was. It rose, sought its path for a moment through the sky, and
took flight on a steady wing for Ireland. The spirit of that story has
never died in the soul of the Irish and in their poetry up to the
present day.

Lastly, as we read these stories, even in a modern dress, an
impression of great ancientry is made upon us, so much so that some
scholars have tried to turn Finn into a mythical hero--but if he be as
old as that implies, of how great an age must be the clearly mythic
tales which gather round the Tuatha de Danaan? However this may be,
the impression of ancientry is deep and agreeable. All myths in any
nation are, of course, of a high antiquity, but as they treat of the
beginning of things, they mingle an impression of youth with one of
age. This is very pleasant to the imagination, and especially so if
the myths, as in Ireland, have some poetic beauty or strangeness, as
in the myth I have referred to--of the deep spring of clear water and
the nine hazels of wisdom that encompass it.