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Updated: May 15, 2025
He was from Snizort, in the Isle of Skye, and, though he had attained competence in the land of his adoption, he mourned the absence of his native heather. He asked me the usual Highland question, "Tell me the news;" and I told him all that I could recollect of those with whom he was familiar. He spoke of the Cuchullin Hills, and the stern beauty of Loch Corruisk, with tears in his eyes.
Cuchullin's story is in touch with the Deirdré-Naesi tale; and, as with my 3rd Sonata, the music is more a commentary on the subject than an actual depiction of it." The "lines anent Cuchullin" I quote below. In royal robes, red gold besown, With one last lingering glance He sate himself in lonely state Against a giant monolith, To wait Death's wooing call.
Douglas Hyde, though always at work, had not yet brought the fruits of his researches to light; Miss Eleanor Hull had not collected into a handy volume the materials of "The Cuchullin Saga"; Kuno Meyer we did not know; Standish O'Grady, though he had published his "Heroic Period," had not yet begun popularising the bardic tales in such volumes as "Finn and his Companions."
Captain Con had blown his Epic bubbles, not to speak of his projected tuneful narrative of the adventures of the great Cuchullin, and his Preaching of St. Patrick, and other national triumphs. He could own, however, that the world had a right to the inspection of the Epic books before it awarded him his crown.
But it is so with Scottish folk that they may have lived opposite the Jungfrau at Mürren, and walked among the big trees of the Yosemite Valley, and watched the blood-red afterglow on the Pyramids, and yet will value a sunset behind the Cuchullin hills, and the Pass of the Trossachs, and the mist shot through with light on the sides of Ben Nevis, and the Tay at Dunkeld just above the bridge better guerdon for their eyes.
For it is, I repeat, the heroic Gaelic world that MacDowell has made to live again in his music: that miraculous world of stupendous passions and aspirations, of bards and heroes and great adventure the world of Cuchullin the Unconquerable, and Laeg, and Queen Meave; of Naesi, and Deirdré the Beautiful, and Fergus, and Connla the Harper, and those kindred figures, lovely or greatly tragical, that are like no other figures in the world's mythologies.
"She hated it, when mother used some of her herb drinks last year." "I like Mother Izan," said Roger sturdily. "She cured my leg once, when a stone fell on it long before you came, when I was a little fellow." Roger was not quite ten. "She knows more about plants and animals than anybody. Ruric let her doctor his dog, the big one he calls Cuchullin."
Dedicated, like the "Norse," to Grieg. It was a fortunate, if not an inevitable, event, in view of his temperamental affiliations with the Celtic genius, that MacDowell should have been made aware of the suitability for musical treatment of the ancient heroic chronicles of the Gaels, and that he should have gone for his inspiration, in particular, to the legends comprised in the famous Cycle of the Red Branch: that wonderful group of epics which comprises, among other tales, the story of the matchless Deirdré, whose loveliness was such, so say the chroniclers, that "not upon the ridge of earth was there a woman so beautiful," and the life and adventures and glorious death of the incomparable Cuchullin.
In them are interspersed many other miscellaneous tracts, among which is one called Sgeul-an-Erin, but deficient, wherein mention is made of Garbh mac Stairn, said to be slain by Cuchullin; a treatise explaining the Ogham manner of writing which is preserved in this book; the privileges of the several kings and princes of Ireland, in making their tours of the Kingdom, and taking their seats at the Feis of Tara; and an antient moral and political poem as an advice to princes and chieftains, other poems and prophecies, etc., chronological and religious, disposed in no certain order.
But she reined you in when you were a real warhorse ramping and snorting flame from your nostrils, challenging any other to a race for Ireland; ay, a Cuchullin you were, Philip, Culann's chain-bound: but she unmanned you. She soaked the woman into you and squeezed the hero out of you. All for Adiante! or a country left to slavery! that's the tale. And what are you now?
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