Although the manuscript tradition is generally dated from as early as the sixth century,16 the vast majority of texts that have survived up to the present day are only as old as the twelfth century, at the very most. The earliest manuscripts just haven’t stood the test of time, but a lot of the manuscripts that were produced between the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries were often part of a conservation effort – copying out the contents of the older manuscripts (perhaps selectively, concentrating on the important or interesting stuff, maybe) to make sure the contents wasn’t completely lost.
It’s thanks to these efforts that we sometimes see tantalising glimpses of the kind of subject matter that could be found in manuscripts from a much earlier date – ones that no longer exist, but were influential enough that scribes often talked about them, noting down occasions where certain details might have differed, for example. This is especially true of a manuscript that’s believed to have been compiled in the eighth century, which is generally referred to as the manuscript of Cín Dromma Snechtai (‘Booklet of Drum Snechta’).17 Based on the comments of various scribes, from a number of later manuscripts, we know it once contained a selection of well-known myths, including an early version of the Lebor Gabála Érenn (‘The Book of the Taking of Ireland,’ but often dubbed ‘The Book of Invasions’), Tochmarc Étaíne (‘The Wooing of Étaín’), Immram Brain (‘The Voyage of Bran’), Echtra Conlai (‘The Adventure of Conla’), and Togail Bruidne Da Derga (‘The Destruction of Da Derga’s Hostel’). Each of these tales are either heavily focused on the gods, or they feature significant encounters with them, and because they were collected together in a manuscript at such an early date, this makes it likely that they represent some of the oldest myths in Ireland; if they aren’t originally pre-Christian origin, then, they were certainly composed in a time when paganism wasn’t yet a thing of the past, and so they’re more likely to reflect details that authentically reflect pagan beliefs in some way.18 This could be something as simple as the fact that Manannán is encountered traversing the sea in Immram Brain, reflecting the fact that he is well-known as a ‘sailor’ or sea-god within the broader tradition, or else we could point to the way in which he is said to be on his way to conceive a child who will become a famous king, which is in keeping with the way that deities are often said to be the ultimate ancestor of a people or dynasty.
There are a number of different surviving versions of the tales that were once compiled together in the Cín Dromma Snechtai, and some of these may represent copies that were directly derived from the Cín Dromma Snechtai itself. In the case of the Lebor Gabála Érenn, however, the origins and evolution of the story are incredibly complicated and convoluted. There are at least sixteen extant copies of the story known today, from manuscripts dating to as early as the twelfth century, right through to the nineteenth century. The story as we know it now is mainly represented by a version (an ‘edition’ or ‘recension’) that was the result of a major overhaul and re-working in the eleventh century – by which time it seems that several new elements had been added to the over all outline of the tale, including the addition of the Tuatha Dé Danann as a group of settlers who came to Ireland from overseas. In origin, the Tuatha Dé Danann are essentially synonymous with ‘the gods’ of Ireland (or some of the more well-known deities, anyway), so the fact that their background and origins were changed to make them seem more human (and foreigners who came to Ireland from abroad) was a blatant effort at undermining their divinity. It was also intended to make Ireland’s own prehistory fit in with the Bible’s own description of the world’s origins, so there’s an obvious Christian agenda to way the way in which the story unfolds.
Over time, several other new ‘editions’ or ‘recensions’ were produced, with various copies (or ‘redactions’) produced for each of them. The changes that were made in these new recensions and redactions weren’t quite as radical as the massive overhaul the Book of Invasions received in the eleventh century,19 but even so no two versions of the story are exactly the same. In the course of reworking the story, or just writing down a new copy (or ‘redaction’) into a new manuscript, we sometimes find the scribes pausing for a moment to add their own comments. At times, the scribe will even note the differences between the version of events that they’re describing, and the version that unfolded in the Cín Dromma Snechtai version. From these comments, we learn that although the more recent recensions will describe a woman named Cessair – a granddaughter of Noah (the dude in the Bible with the ark) – as the first person who came to Ireland, the Cín Dromma Snechtai‘s version insisted that it was Banba instead. Banba is better known as one of the three main goddesses who gave her name to Ireland, alongside her sisters Ériu and Fótla, so it would make sense that she should be the first to arrive on Irish shores (although to be fair, it’s possible that Cessair herself might have divine, pagan origins, too).20
Just because the Cín Dromma Snechtai may represent an earlier version, that doesn’t mean it must, therefore, represent a more authentic, or more pagan version of a story. The differences we might see here can still be informative, however, but unfortunately for us it’s unlikely that we’ll ever see the Cín Dromma Snechtai manuscript in all of its glory; the manuscript was lost at some point, probably by the seventeenth century or so at the latest. This date is an ‘educated guess,’ based on the fact that the seventeenth century historian, Geoffrey Keating (c. 1569 – c. 1644) was clearly aware of its existence, but he apparently didn’t have access to it himself, despite the fact that he consulted a wide range of ancient manuscripts in his work.21
The tantalising glimpses we catch of the Cín Dromma Snechtai, and the many different copies of some of the more popular myths that each have their own unique elements on display, shows us quite clearly that the scribes didn’t always write things down verbatim – faithfully writing down what they saw, exactly and precisely, as they copied out stories from these older sources to preserve them in a new manuscript. Sometimes the changes they made are significant departures from the details we find in earlier versions, but sometimes the differences are purely to do with modernisation of the language. In some cases, perhaps the language they were dealing with in those old manuscripts seemed rather archaic and old fashioned even by their day, so it made sense to update things so the contents would be more readable – a conscious choice was made to change and update the language. In doing so, the scribe may have had to make a judgement call in certain matters, making a valiant attempt at eking out some sort of sense from a text that was already very obscure in its meaning, or perhaps imperfectly preserved. In other cases, however, the scribe might have started off copying things down exactly as they were in the original, preserving the older style of the language, but as they got to grips with things they started to put things into their own words and so began modernising it.
Either way, these language changes are useful for us. Sometimes we find stories that seem to be a mishmash of Old Irish and Middle Irish, and this is why you’ll often see a story being described by academic types as being ‘eighth century’ in origin, even though the only copy we might have of that tale might be in a manuscript from a much later period. For example, the story of Cath Maige Tuired (‘The Second Battle of Mag Tuired’) is often described as a ‘ninth century tale,’ although sometimes you might find it being acknowledged as having ‘additions from the eleventh or twelfth century.’ The only surviving copy of this story is in a sixteenth century manuscript, however,22 so it’s from a linguistic analysis of the text itself – looking at the certain words might appear, the sort of grammar or flourishes we might find – that we get this ninth century date.
All this means is that we have a pretty good idea that the story itself was probably first written down in the ninth century (or a ninth century copy of the story has been a primary influence in the tale’s history, at least). That doesn’t mean that the story itself has to have been composed or ‘invented’ at that time, and the story of Cath Maige Tuired is again a perfect example here: although we can see several additions to the tale that were most likely derived from the Lebor Gabála Érenn – or the version of that text as it stood in the eleventh or twelfth century – there are a number of elements in the story that are very likely derived from far older (and likely pre-Christian) material.23
Myths from this relatively early date – from the eighth or ninth century – are often the kinds of stories that are most useful to us, not because they’re older and therefore must be closer to the ‘original’ pre-Christian version of the story,24 but simply for the fact that the scribes were still quite relaxed about portraying the more pagan content in fairly bold terms. The scribe’s concern, at this point, was often to do with reconciling the existence of the gods within a Christian worldview – because after all, how could the gods exist when there’s only one God? The scribes could have demonised them, choosing to explain them as ‘false gods’ who had led people astray until Jesus came along and gave a message of truth instead. Some of the scribes did – or they at least touched on the possibility – but for the most part the scribes took a euhemerist approach, choosing to explain that the gods weren’t gods at all; they were merely otherworldly spirits (the áes síde), or perhaps just mortals with exceptional powers, that had led people to the mistaken impression that they were divine. But now, everyone knew better, of course.25
The later tales tend to take more liberties with the story and how things unfold. There’s an Early Modern ‘retelling’ of Cath Maige Tuired, for example, which is so different from the earlier version that it’s essentially a different story. Where the early version portrays Núadu as a good and wise king – well-loved and wise, sacrificing his own position as king for the good of his people (twice) – the Early Modern version depicts him as being rather jealous and insecure. The story starts right as the battle gets started, with no real explanation of why the Tuatha Dé Danann are fighting the Fomorians in the first place (where the earlier version goes into a lot of detail).
In both cases, however, the two battling sides are depicted as allegories for very real events that were going on at the time the tales were written down. In the ninth century, the Tuatha Dé Danann were implicitly meant to be understood by the audience as stand-ins for the people of Ireland themselves, while the Fomorians represented the Norse settlers who had colonised parts of the Irish coast – posing a threat to Irish sovereignty, and the very concept of an Irish identity, even. In the Early Modern version, the story was an allegory for a rather epic clash between two rival territories in the same area the mythical battle was set in.26 In this respect, as much as this story might have clear pagan roots, both versions are very much a product of their day, and any ‘original’ version that might have existed may have unfolded rather differently. These are things we have to consider when we look at the stories and try to glean any pagan-related information.
The scribes even created new stories (though at least some of these may have been cobbled together from older, genuinely pre-Christian tales that were just repackaged), like we see with the thirteenth century story of Acallam na Senórach (‘The Colloquy of the Ancients’) and the fifteenth century tale Cath Finntrágha (‘The Battle of Ventry’). The gods are featured in these stories, but they exist in a firmly Christianised world. They are no longer divine, but distant memories; echoes of an ancient past who are magical and otherworldly, but definitely not godly. Even so, their personalities shine through. They may not be ‘authentic’ in terms of having any clear pre-Christian roots, but they might still give us a sense of who the gods are.27
More to the point, perhaps, all of this historical fiddling about with the myths means that the tales often contradict one another on certain details – even on matters of parentage, which can cause a big headache. In the early tales, for example, the god Bodb Derg is described as a son of a rather obscure figure named Eochu Garb (a grandson of Bres, son of Elatha, and the second husband of Tailltiu, who fostered Lug). In later tales we see him known as a son of the Dagda, however, although as John Carey has pointed out, it’s not necessarily absolutely clear if this earlier Bodb (son of Eochu Garb) and the later Bodb Derg (son of the Dagda) really are one and the same; they may have the same name, but that doesn’t really prove anything, does it?28 On the whole, however, it would be extremely unusual for two entirely different gods to have the same name; people, yes, but divinities not so much. Making an offering to a deity and having two or more showing up to receive it is just a recipe for disaster, really.
Just as we saw with Bodb, though, Midir’s parentage also changes over time. In the literature from around the twelfth century and earlier Midir may be described as the son of someone named Indui, son of Échtach – when his lineage is discussed at all. In this period, Midir is a close friend of the Dagda, and he becomes the foster-father of the Dagda and Bóand’s son, Óengus mac Ind Óc (even going so far as to raise Óengus as his own son, so that Bóand’s husband, Nechtán, might never know that Bóand had an illicit affair with the Dagda).29 Neither Indui nor Échtach are especially prominent or recognisable members of the Tuatha Dé Danann, but the earlier version of Midir’s genealogy does make him the nephew of Núadu Airgetlám, the Tuatha Dé Danann’s king at the time of their arrival in Ireland. Despite this fact, however, the sources never make a huge deal of his apparently close relationship to Núadu. By the thirteenth century (in tales like the Acallam na Senórach, or ‘The Colloquy of the Ancients’), Midir suddenly becomes a son of the Dagda – now making him a brother to Óengus mac Ind Óc, as well as Brigit and Cermait Milbél, amongst many others.30 This shift in parentage, as we see may also see with Bodb, was presumably intended to simplify genealogical matters (and the number of obscure characters who then need to be referenced in any one tale), since Eochu Garb and Indui are both relative unknowns.
To a degree, however, these contradictions or inconsistencies are immaterial, and they’re not only due to the scribes fiddling about with things as time goes by. The myths have always been inconsistent and contradictory, whether it’s because the differences in the details reflect evidence of localised variations in a story, or because the details – inconsistent though they might be – help to articulate a deeper truth, or serve the specific circumstances of the plot at that moment in time. They don’t reflect plot-holes, or Christian interference. They just reflect a different approach to story-telling. In addition to a little bit of interference, maybe.
References
16 The very earliest surviving manuscripts are ecclesiastical in focus, and written in Latin, but even here we find a smattering of Old Irish being used at times. See: Tomás Ó Cathasaigh, ‘II: Early Irish Narrative Literature,’ in Kim McCone and Katharine Simms (Eds.), Progress in Medieval Irish Studies (1996), 59.
17 Manuscripts are usually referred to as a Lebor or ‘Book,’ in Old Irish, like Lebor Laignech or the ‘Book of Leinster.’ Cín, meanwhile, specifically refers to a folio of five sheets of vellum, and so the is believed to suggest a smaller than the average manuscript. See:
eDIL s.v. cín or dil.ie/9105
eDIL s.v. lebor or dil.ie/29673
John T. Koch, Celtic Culture: A Historical Encyclopaedia (2006), 437.
18 John T. Koch, Celtic Culture: A Historical Encyclopaedia (2006), 437-438.
19 See: Mark Scowcroft, ‘Leabhar Gabhála: Part I: The Growth of the Text,’ in Ériu 38 (1987), 84-88; John Carey, The Irish National Origin-Legend: Synthetic Pseudohistory (1994).
20 ‘Now, who (was the first who) took Ireland after the creation of the world?
This is what the Book of Druim Snechta says, that Banba was the name of the first woman who found Ireland before the Flood, and that from her Ireland is called “Banba.” With thrice fifty maidens she came, and with three men. Ladra, one of the three men, he is the first dead man of Ireland at that time: from him is named Ard Ladrann. Forty years were they in the island: thereafter a disease came upon them, so that they all died in one week. Afterward Ireland was for two hundred years without a living person and thereafter came the Flood. A year and forty days was Ireland under the Flood. At the end of three hundred years thereafter, Partholon took Ireland: he dwelt there five hundred and fifty years, till the Cynocephali drave him out, and there escaped [survived] not one of his children alive. For thirty years after that there was not a man living in Ireland.’
R.A.S. Macalister, Lebor Gabála Érenn: The Book of the Taking of Ireland Part II (1939), 177-179. See also: John Carey, ‘Origin and Development of the Cesair Legend’, in Éigse, 22 (1987), 37–48.
21 John T. Koch, Celtic Culture: A Historical Encyclopaedia (2006), 437-438.
22 John Carey, The Mythological Cycle of Medieval Irish Literature (2018).
23 Tomás Ó Cathasaigh, Coire Sois: The Cauldron of Knowledge (ed. Matthieu Boyd, 2014).
24 The truth is that the idea of an ‘original,’ ‘pagan’ version of any myth was never actually a reality, even if a specific tale really does have pre-Christian origins. Pre-Christian Ireland embraced an oral tradition, and this is also true, to some degree or another, of early (and later) medieval Ireland, too. In the medieval period the filid (‘professional poets’), for example, had to learn a huge repertoire of tales; a poet of the very highest grade was meant to know pretty much every single myth – all 350 or so of them, in fact – which they could then tell whenever the occasion demanded it. It’s unlikely they spent their years of training memorising the entire contents of each tale, which they could then recite verbatim from start to finish, with exactly the same wording being used every time. Instead, it’s more likely that they concentrated on memorising the key details of a tale, and found ways to connect the dots between points A and B, and so on. At any given time, then, the tales were being told again and again, by poets and storytellers all over Ireland, with the same over all details being given, but not necessarily the exact same wording.
25 For more on this, see John Carey’s A Single Ray of the Sun: Religious Speculation in Early Ireland (1999); the first chapter, titled ‘Baptism of the Gods,’ has an overview of how the early Irish scribes dealt with the gods. As a follow-up, sort of, see also: John Carey, ‘The Old Gods of Ireland in the Later Middle Ages,’ in Katja Ritari and Alexandra Bergholm, Understanding Celtic Religion: Revisiting the Pagan Past (2015).
26 John Carey, ‘Myth and Mythography in Cath Maige Tuired,’ in Studia Celtica 24–25 (1989–1990), and Mícheál Hoyne’s ‘The Political Context of Cath Muighe Tuireadh, the Early Modern Irish Version of the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh,’ in Ériu 63 (2013).
27 For more on the myths through the ages, see Mark Williams, Ireland’s Immortals: A History of the Gods of Irish Myth (2016).
28 John Carey, The Mythological Cycle of Medieval Irish Literature (2018) 53-54.
29 Midir’s relationship with Óengus, as his foster-father, is an especially significant part of the (originally eighth century tale), Tochmarc Étaíne (‘The Wooing of Étaín’), in particular. The Lebor Gabála Érenn has a section commonly referred to as the Genelach Tuath nDé (‘Genealogy of the Tuath Dé’), which details the various relationships of the Tuatha Dé Danann as a whole. Mark Williams offers some truly fascinating insights into the possible origins of this family tree (as a possible mnemonic device, where the relationships encapsulate the most significant details about the gods, with many of the names being allegorical in nature). See: Mark Williams, Ireland’s Immortals: A History of the Gods of Irish Myth (2016).
R.A.S. Macalister, Lebor Gabála Érenn: The Book of the Taking of Ireland Part IV (1941), 127.
30 Ann Dooley and Harry Roe, Tales of the Elders of Ireland: Acallam Na Senórach (1999), 15.
Eòlas 