“Of course. They had to write the verse-tales, and they had to tell them, too; they were obliged to learn and teach three hundred and fifty kinds of versification, and an Ollave, or chief poet, could recite at any moment any of three hundred and fifty stories. They did a lot of harm, because they abused their power; and at last, in the sixth century, were nearly banished from Ireland altogether. Columcille saved them from that fate, but they were made much less important. However, the poets that you are looking at with your mind’s eye, Norah, were ages before that, and you can imagine them as gorgeous and as haughty as possible, and every one is very polite to them.”
“I’m going to get off this stone and make room for the chief,” said Wally, solemnly, rising. “There’s the ghost of a poet, glaring at me, and he’s going to burst into a satire.” He subsided on the grass beside Norah. “Go on, please.”
“Well, that is the crowd on top of the Rock,” Sir John said: “nobles, councillors, poets, and Druids, all in order of rank: the Rock would hold three or four hundred, all told. And the crowd below, gazing up. I’m glad you got off the stone, Wally, because the chief wants it now. He takes off his wonderful shoes of gold, and places one foot on the stone, and swears to preserve all ancient customs inviolable, to deliver up the rulership peaceably, when the time comes, to his successor, to rule the people with justice, and to maintain the laws. Then he puts away his weapons, and the highest of his nobles, an hereditary official, gives him a straight white rod in token of authority—straight, to remind him that his administration should be just, and white, that his actions should be pure and upright. Then he gives him new sandals: and keeping one of the golden shoes, he throws the other over the new chief’s head and proclaims him O’Donnell. All the nobles repeat the title—can’t you hear the mighty shout, and the crowd below taking it up, so that it rings over Tyrconnell!”
“Oh-h!” breathed Norah. “And it was here, where we are sitting!” She put her hand on the ground that had felt the tramp of the hosts of ancient days. “Was that all, Sir John?”
“That ended the ceremony; except that each subject paid a cow as rod-money, a sort of tribute to the new chief. But of course there was high feasting and festival, probably for days. They had splendid feasts, too. Once, when one of the great nobles entertained the chief and all the men of Tyrconnel, the preparations took a whole year. A special house was built, surpassing all other buildings in beauty of architecture, with splendid pillars and carvings: in the banqueting-hall the wainscotting was of bronze thirty feet high, overlaid with gold. It took a wagon-team to carry each beam, and the strength of seven men to fix each pole; and the royal couch was set with precious stones ‘radiant with every hue, making night bright as day.’ ”
O’Neill broke off, and hesitated.
“Do I tell you too much?” he asked. “I’m afraid my tongue runs away with me—but I did want you to realize something of what Ireland was. There were great men in those days, and the fighting-men had high ideals of what great champions should be. It is what kept us all through our lifetime,’ one said—‘truth that was in our hearts, and strength in our arms, and fulfilment on our tongues.’ ”
He was silent, looking away. The proud soul, pent in the misshapen body, found comfort in turning from the present, that held so little for him, back to the mighty past when the O’Neills, too, had been chieftains and champions.
Presently he stood up, with a shrug.
“Time we went down, I’m afraid,” he said, cheerfully. “Before we go, Norah, I will proceed to relate for your benefit the six womanly gifts which were demanded of properly-brought-up young women in the high and far-off times in Ireland. They were, the gift of modest behaviour, the gift of singing, the gift of sweet speech, the gift of beauty, the gift of wisdom, and the gift of needlework!”