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word still makes the port of Galway with its fishing villiage
inhabited, as all who have visited it perceive, by a southern race in some of whose customs and superstitions the present writer was struck with the resemblance existing between them and those of the inhabitants of Majorca and Ivica, which have undoubtedly a Phoenician origin. Oath, a battle, is the prefix or intermediate syllables of many old local British words as of others in ancient France, Spain, and Italy, where we find it also a component of personal names. The Roman poet Catul lus, for instance, has a purely Celtic name, (it is written Cathell in an old Gaulish inscription) and means “equal to a multitude in battle”; it was evidently the titie given to some Celtic chieftain from whom the poet was descended. The greatest literary men of Italy came from the north, Cisalpiue Gaul, whose original population was Celtic, as the names of places and persons testify. Thus Verona, the birth-place of Catullus, was originally a residence of the Fear are or “ noble men,” the chieftains of a Celtic tribe. Virgil also was born in this re gion near Mantua, on the river Mincio, and many will be sur prised to learn that the name of the author of the Bucolics and -Eneid while pure Celtic, illustrates the original location or occupation of' the tribe from which lie sprung. Virgil is Fearl Gil. the “man of the water or river” ; the Celtic/ changing into the Latin v as in all such cases. The Romans derived several of their gods from Etruiia, the modern Tuscany—whose inhabitants have long formed a puzzle to historians, some supposing they came from Lydia in Asia Minor, some from Egypt, chiefly on the ground of a few such indications in the Latin writers, who were equally ignorant of the country whence they originated—and from their writing from the right hand to the left like all Semitic and most an cient eastern peoples. We are not aware that the fragments of the language of the mysterious Etruscans, as found in in scriptions at Luna, Cortona, Clusium, and other ruined Cyclo pean cities, have been compared with the Celtic ; it is general ly considered, excepting a few words,incomprehehsible by classi cal scholars ; but there can be no doubt that the names of the deities alone referred to, not to speak of many local Etrurian names, are of Celtic origin; such as Luna, from lun, the moon, Venus from funn, desire, Minerva (she) with the wise mouth or speech, and the goddess of wisdom, «Stc. The Celtic settle ments, indeed, extended not only over the centre of north Italy, but at one time also over the Latin plain, the site of Rome and the neighboring antique cities with whom her earli est war8, memorised by Livy, commenced. Of this fact we could adduce many traces, but will merely offer a remarkable one in the name of Caesar. The Romans have generally three names, one personal like our Christian name, one illustrating their tribe, and an agnomen indicative of some personal pecu liarity or historical association. In this they resembled alike the chieftains of Greece as we find in Horner, and those of Ireland. Thus we have Neall of the nine hostages, Shane an diomais, John of the ambition, Aedli Geimhleach, Aedli of the Fetters. In the case in point, Julius derived his second name from the Julian tribe which numbered among it the chiefs or kings of Alba Longa. The third name or agnomen, Cmsar, the emperor of France in his late biography of the Dictator states to be the Phoenician for an elephant, as it is ; and adds the supposition that he assumed it from his race having been distinguished in the Carthagenian wars. Suetonius, however, sn his life of Augustus, alluding to the circumstance of the first letter of Cmsar on a statue of that emperor having been struck away by lightning (C stands for 100, and the aurispiees interpreted the matter that the emperor would only live but a hundred days more) states that the remaining word aesar, was the Etruscan for a god. Here we come at its origin. In Celtic cesar means a noble man, one superior to all others, ces man, and sar, a sign of the superlative case in Celtic, meaning no ble, or supremeinent. Derivations like the above indicating the indestructible traces of the Celtic peoples in directions where history and philosophy have not yet followed them, we could extend indefinitely, not over Europe alone but western Asia. The Celtic roots shine out in local and personal names in countries which have been inhabited for thousands of years by peoples speaking Caucasian languages of later origin, and prove that the descendants of Gomer—a word which the Celts derive from gom, kindred, and er, noble, and Semitic scholars from the Sanskrit, go, cattle, and men, possessor—enjoyed the civilization of a grammatical language not only before the Vedas of Ilindoostan were written, but before the nation who spoke the primitive Sanskrit left the table lands of Asia for India. The Language and Literature of Ireland. PART 4. BY T. O’NEILL RUSSELL. As a proof of the assertion, made previously, as to the ease with which translations into Gaelic can be made, we present our readers with Moore s divine verses on Sarah Curran and Robert Emmet. The music is old, very old, as old as it is beau tiful, and never were deathless words wedded to a more immor tal melody. Long centuries before Emmet was martyred, or Moore was born, the air was known amongst the Irish peas antry by the name of Fungal an Doras. It owes its present Gaelic dress to Dr. McIIale, Archbishop of Tuam : Is fad i o’n g-crich bh-fuil a h-og laoeh ’nn a luidhe, ’S gan aird air a suirighibh ’g a breugadh ; Acht uimpigheann go fuar 0 shuilibh gach saoi, Oir ta a croidhe ]e n-a ceile ’g a eugadh. Budh iad nbhrain duthchais a tir’ fein do sheinn,’ Rinn gach fearsa d’ar ail leis do mheamhradh ; 0 ’a beagimnidhe locht cluinste a ceolta binn, A croidhe bheith ’g a bhriseadh gan cabhradh ! Do mhair se d’ a rQn, agus d’eag se d’a chrich; , So an meud bhi ’g a oheanghail air talarnh ; Ni luath ’ghabhfas trom-ghul athire aon sgith, ’S ni bheidh bh-fad gan a oheile an uaimh fallamh. 0! dean uaimh dhi ’a an ait bh fail na gaeth’ greine fiar ’Nuar gheallean siad murach glorach ; Beid soilsiughadh air a suan mar smigeadh an iar 0 n-a dil innse fein ata bronach ! She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild notes of her dear native plains— Every thought which he loved awaking,— Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! He had lived for his love, for his country he died,— They were all that to life had entwined him ; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him. Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest When they promise a glorious morrow, They’ll shine on her sleep like smiles from the west O’er her own loved Island of Sorrow. Modern literature might be searched in vain for a more per fect translation than the foregoing. The rhyme, the rhythm, the sense, and the pathos, are preserved so exactly that one might almost suppose the composer and translator one. Eng lishmen—solt-heuded creatures who write in the Pall Mall Ga zette and Saturday Review—should have this translation thrust down their throats whenever they’d say Gaelic was a barbarous language. Some one has said that the songs of a people have more in fluence on them than hisiory. The saying certainly holds good as far as Ireland is concerned. Irish nationality owes most of its existence to poetry. Moore and Davis have made more Itish rebels than cither Cromwell or Judge Keogh. Conquer ors and perjurers may subdue and madden a nation, but neither have the power to kill its songs. The tyrant and ruffian die, and their power ceases, but “the Spirit of Song” lives forever, and influences generation after generation. If the poetry of Ireland could be killed, then, indeed, might she cease to be a difficulty to English statesmen. But we are supposing an im possibility, for the true and the beautiful can never die ; and as long as Irish hearts throb to the music of their glorious melo dies, so long is there a hope for their liberty, and so long will they aspire to be free. A peculiarity of Celtic music is, that it is either very sad or very gay ; but sadness is its distinguishing characteristic. A great foreigner once said, on hearing Irish melodies for the first time, “That is the music of a people who have lost their lib erty.” Moore, with a beauty of expression rarely equalled, has told the whole case in four lines of “Dear Harp of my Coun try :— The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Had wakened thy loudest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft has it echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.” Sad indeed has been the lot of the children of the Gael. No wonder that their poetry should be one great song of sorrow. Of all branches of the Caucasian race, they have been the most steadily unfortunate. Those songs of sorrow are not con fined alone to Ireland, for they are the strains in which the Scotch Highlander laments the desolation of his country, and the ruin of his race. “The Banks and Braes o’ bonny Boon,” and “ We return no more”* have a strange ethnological affinity with the “ Coolin’’ and the “Lamentation of Aughriin.” All express such a depth of sentiment that one might imagine the very inanimate things of earth would weep to hear them. But certainly they have very little effect on the “ cold-hearted Saxon.” The Grampians or Slieve na Mon may weep at the swan-like strains, but “Jolly John Bull” looks on quite un moved, and rejoices that the Celts are “gone with a ven geance.” Take care, John; they may be “gone for a ven geance.” Remember the story of Mazeppa. He was bound on the back of a wild horse, and 'lent to perish in the wilderness. You are driving away the children of the Gael, naked and bleeding: perhaps you are sending them “across a desert to a throne.” As we have remarked, Celtic music and poetry are either very sad or very joyous. They are often both almost at the same time. Like the race that made them, they are full of irregu larities, amounting almost to contradictions. An itinerant Irish musician may be often seen playing a melody with every feature of his face expressing the depth and intensity of his feeling, and looking the very personification of sentiment and sadness. The next instant he rattles off into a jig or a planxty, his eyes fairlv twinkle with merriment, and his whole deportment would * “ Cha tuill, cha tuill mi tuille,” in Scotch Gaelic, the songs the clans sing as they leave their country forever in order that grouse may be multiplied and cockneys amused. lead a stranger to believe that if lie was n’t quite out of his wits he had at least pitched care to the deuce for the rest of his life. It may not, perhaps, be out of place to remark here, that there does seem to be some latent similarity between the phys ical nature of a country and its inhabitants. The parts of Great Britain to which the Gaelic race was confined, differ very much in physical aspect from the remainder of the island, and are wonderfully like Ireland. The eastern seaboard of Great Britain is, for the most pirt, flat and unpieturesque. It con sists of sandy reaches of hundreds of miles, without harbors, and almost without indentations; but the coasts of the Gael are the most indented, varied, and rock bound, perhaps, in the world. Along them all is wildness or grandeur, beauty or ter ror. From Cork harbor, in the south of Ireland, to Cape Wrath, in the north of Scotland, following the indented, rock bound coast, more scenes of wierd, lonely magnificence are to be met than in perhaps any other spot of the habitable globe. There is no such thing as sameness, but startling successions from loveliness to terror. Here is a stupendous sea cliff1, black, frowning, and horrible; there is a smooth bay, where all is beauty and loveliness, where fairy islets, carpeted with eternal verdure, rise above the quiet waters. Then we reach some sinuous sea luke that leads far into the interior, amid moun tains of fantastic forms, cloud-capped and hoath-clad, riven asunder by gloomy passes, ar.d opening into glens where the poet or the painter might dwell forever. Never ending variety and sudden transitions are the characters of the land of wonders. Like the race that dwells in it, it seems made up of contradic tions. Beauty and terror come so close that they almost touch. Every scene is unique and extreme in its character. There are the glories of Clew Bay and the horrors of Loch Coruisk ; one all softness and beauty, the other all frightfulness and sterility. Both are peerless scenes, and were they anywhere else would be known to the world and visited by the great; but unfortu nately they lie too far away, amid famishing Celts, and the mis fortunes of the race that dwells by them have deterred travel ers fiom visiting them. We all hate to gaze on human wretch edness, and it is no wonder that men keep away from Con naught and the Isle of Skye. The Celt is a3 many-sided and as varied as his country. He changes all of a sudden, and olten without any apparent cause, from joy to sorrow, from hope to despair, from meekness to ferocity. Like a musical instrument of greatest compass, he can sound, almost at the same instant, every note from the diapason to the treble. He can be the gayest, the saddest, the gentlest, and the most brutal of mankind. He seems a com pound of contradictions, and his mental attributes bear a strong impression of the physical peculiarities of the birth-place of his race. Who could have conceived the imageries of Ossian anywhere but amid the scenes of chaotic grandeur of which they are the poetic embodiments? The spirit of Morven seems to preside over them all. There is in them every physical pe culiarity of the northern land of the Gael, changed by the poet’s brain into poetic imagery as everlasting as the mighty hills among which it was born, and to which it owed its birth. Ossian is simply, a poetic transcript op the mountains of Done gall. Such poems owe their existence more to physical nature than to ideal conceptions. They are glorious photographs of the ruggedest and loveliest scenes in nature, and Fingall is only a human Morven that rises up, collossal and giant-like, above clouds and storms. There is in them an unmistakable sadness, which seems the prophetic foreknowledge of the desolation that was to come upon those lands of sorrow,—a sadness that sank like lead into the poet’s bosom as he beheld in the future the dismantled strongholds of his chief, and the desolated patri mony of his clan. This strain of sadness, so melancholy and so sweet, is ever present in Celtic music and poetry. Some of our most beantiful airs are lamentations. There have been na tions that have died without a murmur, others have vanished in a shriek, but the Gael is passing away in a song,—a song so sweet, so sad, so full of pathos and beauty that it melts our souls, and makes us weep for wrongs, the only details of which are those divine strains composed by no particular individual —the spontaneous utterances of a ruined race. Yes, the Gael is passing away, but whence i3 he going? Is he going out of existence like the Carthagenian, or into servi tude like the Circassian ? Not so, indeed, but to become part and parcel and joint ruler of the mightiest of earth’s nations. He must sing his songs of sorrow by the Shannon and theTay, but he can shout back a defiance from the Mississippi, and shortly perhaps in triumph from the St. Lawrence, lie must be transfigured before lie can be triumphant. Long as his night of sorrow has been, the first bright streak of dawn is al ready plainly perceptible. Long has be strained his eyes watching for it in the East, but now he turns in an opposite di rection, and his eager and astonished gaze beholds the portals of the West opening before him, full of light and glory. All at home may be dark and dreary, but the same prophetic, in stinctive foreknowledge that showed his ancestors their long nights of coming sorrow, shows him the certain approach ol the illimitable day that must soon shed its light on his long sufler ing nation and race. He is leaving his native laud now, but not to the tune of “ I return no more, lor he knows that he is gaining the power to make the wav home not a journey of suf fering but of triumph. [to »e continued.] --c»ii — The Cretan insurrection is assuming massive proportions.