ven their
logical coherence and imaginative unity--broken, scattered portions as
they all are of that one enormous epic, the bardic history of Ireland.
At the best we read without the key. The magic of the names is gone,
or can only be partially recovered by the most tender and sympathetic
study. Indeed, without reading all or many, we will not understand
the superficial meaning of even one. For instance, in one of the many
histories of Cuculain's many battles, we read this--

"It was said that Lu Mac AEthleen was assisting him."

This at first seems meaningless, the bard seeing no necessity for
throwing further light on the subject; but, as we wander through the
bardic literature, gradually the conception of this Lu grows upon the
mind--the destroyer of the sons of Turann--the implacably filial--the
expulsor of the Fomoroh--the source of all the sciences--the god of the
Tuatha De Danan--the protector and guardian of Cuculain--Lu Lamfada,
son of Cian, son of Diancect, son of Esric, son of Dela, son of Ned the
war-god, whose tomb or temple, Aula Neid, may still be seen beside the
Foyle. This enormous and seemingly chaotic mass of literature is found
at all times to possess an inner harmony, a consistency and logical
unity, to be apprehended only by careful study.

So read, the sublimity strikes through the rude representation.
Astonished at himself, the student, who at first thinks that he has
chanced upon a crowd of barbarians, ere long finds himself in the august
presence of demi-gods and heroes.

A noble moral tone pervades the whole. Courage, affection, and truth are
native to all who live in this world. Under the dramatic image of
Ossian wrangling with the Talkend, [Note: St. Patrick, on account of
the tonsured crown.] the bards, themselves vainly fighting against the
Christian life, a hundred times repeat through the lips of Ossian like a
refrain--

"We, the Fianna of Erin, never uttered falsehood,
Lying was never attributed to us;
By courage and the strength of our hands
We used to come out of every difficulty."

Again: Fergus, the bard, inciting Oscar to his last battle--in that poem
called the Rosc Catha of Oscar:--

"Place thy hand on thy gentle forehead
Oscar, who never lied."
[Note: Publications of Ossianic Society, p. 159; vol. i.]

And again, elsewhere in the Ossianic poetry:--

"Oscar, who never wronged bard or woman."

Strange to say, too, they i