[886] With Edda, a general term for the rules and materials for verse-making, may be connoted our ode.
[887] According to the original Irish of the story-teller, translated and published for the first time in 1855, Conn, the Consort of Eda, “was a puissant warrior, and no individual was found able to compete with him either on land or sea, or question his right to his conquest. The great King of the West held uncontrolled sway from the island of Rathlin to the mouth of the Shannon by sea, and as far as the glittering length by land. The ancient King of the West, whose name was Conn, was good as well as great, and passionately loved by his people. His Queen (Eda) was a Breaton (British) princess, and was equally beloved and esteemed, because she was the great counterpart of the King in every respect; for whatever good qualification was wanting in the one, the other was certain to indemnify the omission. It was plainly manifest that heaven approved of the career in life of the virtuous couple; for during their reign the earth produced exuberant crops, the trees fruit ninefold commensurate with their usual bearing, the rivers, lakes and surrounding sea teemed with abundance of choice fish, while herds and flocks were unusually prolific, and kine and sheep yielded such abundance of rich milk that they shed it in torrents upon the pastures; and furrows and cavities were filled with the pure lacteal produce of the dairy. All these were blessings heaped by heaven upon the western districts of Innes Fodhla, over which the benignant and just Conn swayed his sceptre, in approbation of the course of government he had marked out for his own guidance. It is needless to state that the people who owned the authority of this great and good sovereign were the happiest on the face of the wide expanse of earth. It was during his reign, and that of his son and successor, that Ireland acquired the title of the ‘happy Isle of the West’ among foreign nations. Con Mor and his good Queen Eda reigned in great glory during many years.”
[888] Wood, E. J., Giants and Dwarfs, p. 11. According to Maundeville in Egypt “they find there also the apple-tree of Adam which has a bite on one side”.
[889] There is a conspicuously interesting group of names around the river Eden in Sussex. At Edenbridge is Dencross, and in close neighbourhood Ide Hill, Dane Hill, Paxhill Park, Brown Knoll, St. Piers Farm, Hammerwood, Pippenford Park, Allen Court, Lindfield, Londonderry, and Cinder Hill. With Broadstone Warren and Pippinford Park it is noteworthy that opposite St. Bride’s Church, Ludgate Hill, is Poppins Court and Shoe Lane: immediately adjacent is a Punch Tavern, whence I think that Poppins was Punch and Shoe was Judy. The gaudy popinjay, at which our ancestors used to shoot, may well have stood in Poppins Court: a representation of this brilliant parrot or parrakeet is carved into one of the modern buildings now occupying the site.
[890] Moody, S., What is Your Name? p. 257.
[891] Knight, R. Payne, The Symbolic Language of Ancient Art and Mythology, p. 128.
[892] “Archæologia” (from The Gentleman’s Magazine), p. 270.
[893] “Archæologia” (from The Gentleman’s Magazine), p. 270.
[894] “When I was a child I would no more have thought of going out on Easter morning without a real Easter egg than I would have thought of leaving my stocking unsuspended from the foot of my bed on Christmas Eve. A few days before Easter I used to go out to the park, where there were a great many whin bushes, and gather whinblossoms, which I carried home to my mother, who put two eggs in a tin, one for me and one for my sister, and added the whinblossoms and water to them, and set them to boil together until the eggs were hard and the shells were stained a pretty brown hue.
“On Easter Monday my sister and I would carry our eggs to a mound in the park called ‘The Dummy’s Hill,’ and would trundle them down the slope. All the boys and girls we knew used to trundle their eggs on Easter Monday. We called it ‘trundling’. The egg-shell generally cracked during the operation of ‘trundling,’ and then the owner of it solemnly sat down and ate the hard-boiled egg, which, of course, tasted very much better than an egg eaten in the ordinary way. ‘The Dummy’s Hill’ was sadly soiled with egg-shells at the end of Easter Monday morning.