who is a land hero, in one of the versions of his death, dies fighting the sea-waves.  The sound, the restlessness, the calm, the savour and the infinite of the sea, live in a host of these stories; and to cap all, the sea itself and Mananan its god sympathise with the fates of Erin.  When great trouble threatens Ireland, or one of her heroes is near death, there are three huge waves which, at three different points, rise, roaring, out of the ocean, and roll, flooding every creek and bay and cave and river round the whole coast with tidings of sorrow and doom.  Later on, in the Fenian tales, the sea is not so prominent.  Finn and his clan are more concerned with the land.  Their work, their hunting and adventures carry them over the mountains and plains, through the forests, and by the lakes and rivers.  In the stories there is scarcely any part of Ireland which is not linked, almost geographically, with its scenery.  Even the ancient gods have retired from the coast to live in the pleasant green hills or by the wooded shores of the great lakes or in hearing of the soft murmur of the rivers.  This business of the sea, this varied aspect of the land, crept into the imagination of the Irish, and were used by them to embroider and adorn their poems and tales.  They do not care as much for the doings of the sky.  There does not seem to be any supreme god of the heaven in their mythology.  Neither the sun nor the moon are specially worshipped.  There are sun-heroes like Lugh, but no isolated sun-god.  The great beauty of the cloud-tragedies of storm, the gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, so dramatic in Ireland, or the magnificence of the starry heavens, are scarcely celebrated.  But the Irish folk have heard the sound of the wind in the tree-tops and marked its cold swiftness over the moor, and watched with fear or love the mists of ocean and the bewilderment of the storm-driven snow and the sweet falling of the dew.  These are fully celebrated.

These great and small aspects of Nature are not only celebrated, they are loved.  One cannot read the stories in this book without feeling that the people who conceived and made them observed Nature and her ways with a careful affection, which seems to be more developed in the Celtic folk than elsewhere in modern Europe.  There is nothing which resembles it in Teutonic story-telling.  In the story of The Children of Lir, though there is no set description of scenery, we feel the spirit of the landscape by the lake where Lir listened for three hundred years to the sweet songs of his children.  And, as we read of their future fate, we are filled with the solitude and mystery, the ruthlessness and beauty of the ocean.  Even its gentleness on quiet days enters from the tale into our imagination.  Then, too, the mountain-glory and the mountain-gloom are again and again imaginatively described and loved.  The windings and recesses, the darkness and brightness of the woods and the glades therein, enchant the Fenians