that the skill of the
Irish in music "was incomparably superior to that of any other nation."

The meeting of Carolan and Goldsmith may fitly typify the meeting of the
literatures of the old nation and of the Pale--one venerable by age and
glorified by genius, the other young, buoyant, and destined, like it, to
be the guardian and the honour of our common country.

Irish literature is of many blends, not the product of one race but of
several. It resembles the great oriel of some ancient cathedral, an
illumination of many beautiful colours, some of which can never be
reproduced, for the art is lost. We possess an unique treasure in that
ancient literature which grew up from a cultured people, self-centred,
independent of Roman discipline. Were it not for this we should look at
the Northern world through Southern eyes, and, taking our view-point from
the Capitol, see nothing beyond the light of the empire, but wild woods
and wastes made horrid by Cimmerian darkness, and shifting hordes of
quarrelsome barbarians. Yet these were the ancestors of most of the modern
European peoples, and those who so depicted them were their coercive and
uncomprehending foes. Our deliverance from this thraldom of an enemy's
judgment abides in the monuments of the ancient Irish.

The magic password of the Arabian bade the rugged mountain open, and
admitted him to the midst of glittering jewels. The knowledge of our old
literature takes us into the heart of the Cimmerian darkness, and shows it
full of glowing light, it takes us into the homes and minds of one of
those great nations uncomprehended of the Romans, and through that one,
enables us to see the great, passionate, pathetic, wild, and generous
humanity of all.

Thus our ancient literature would be invaluable if for this reason alone,
that it gives a new view-point and a new vista. Its importance is
augmented in this, that its reckless sincerity stands the enduring
evidence of a long-vanished stage of social and intellectual development,
where the fiercer and finer powers, the softer and sterner emotions of an
early mankind strive and commingle with dramatic effect. If such a
deposit were not extant, European scholars might well desire to go as
pilgrims, like the bereaved bards, to the grave of Fergus, son of Roi,
with power to call him again on earth, that he might recite the famous
Tain--the lost Epic of a lost World.

It is strange that words, which are such little things--a mere