No More Learning

'

'You may sleep,' said Cumhal, 'I will sing a bard's curse on the
abbot. ' And he set the tub upside down under the window, and stood
upon it, and began to sing in a very loud voice. The singing awoke the
abbot, so that he sat up in bed and blew a silver whistle until the lay
brother came to him. 'I cannot get a wink of sleep with that noise,'
said the abbot. 'What is happening? '

'It is a gleeman,' said the lay brother, 'who complains of the sods,
of the bread, of the water in the jug, of the foot-water, and of the
blanket. And now he is singing a bard's curse upon you, O brother
abbot, and upon your father and your mother, and your grandfather and
your grandmother, and upon all your relations. '

'Is he cursing in rhyme? '

'He is cursing in rhyme, and with two assonances in every line of his
curse. '

The abbot pulled his night-cap off and crumpled it in his hands, and
the circular brown patch of hair in the middle of his bald head looked
like an island in the midst of a pond, for in Connaught they had not
yet abandoned the ancient tonsure for the style then coming into use.
'If we do not somewhat,' he said, 'he will teach his curses to the
children in the street, and the girls spinning at the doors, and to the
robbers upon Ben Bulben. '

'Shall I go, then,' said the other, 'and give him dry sods, a fresh
loaf, clean water in a jug, clean foot-water, and a new blanket, and
make him swear by the blessed Saint Benignus, and by the sun and moon,
that no bond be lacking, not to tell his rhymes to the children in the
street, and the girls spinning at the doors, and the robbers upon Ben
Bulben? '

'Neither our blessed Patron nor the sun and moon would avail at all,'
said the abbot; 'for to-morrow or the next day the mood to curse
would come upon him, or a pride in those rhymes would move him, and
he would teach his lines to the children, and the girls, and the
robbers. Or else he would tell another of his craft how he fared in the
guest-house, and he in his turn would begin to curse, and my name would
wither. For learn there is no steadfastness of purpose upon the roads,
but only under roofs, and between four walls.
Therefore I bid you go
and awaken Brother Kevin, Brother Dove, Brother Little Wolf, Brother
Bald Patrick, Brother Bald Brandon, Brother James and Brother Peter.
And they shall take the man, and bind him with ropes, and dip him in
the river that he may cease to sing. And in the morning, lest this but
make him curse the louder, we will crucify him. '

'The crosses are all full,' said the lay brother.

'Then we must make another cross. If we do not make an end of him
another will, for who can eat and sleep in peace while men like him
are going about the world? Ill should we stand before blessed Saint
Benignus, and sour would be his face when he comes to judge us at
the Last Day, were we to spare an enemy of his when we had him under
our thumb! Brother, the bards and the gleemen are an evil race, ever
cursing and ever stirring up the people, and immoral and immoderate in
all things, and heathen in their hearts, always longing after the Son
of Lir, and Aengus, and Bridget, and the Dagda, and Dana the Mother,
and all the false gods of the old days; always making poems in praise
of those kings and queens of the demons, Finvaragh, whose home is
under Cruachmaa, and Red Aodh of Cnocna-Sidhe, and Cleena of the Wave,
and Aoibhell of the Grey Rock, and him they call Donn of the Vats of
the Sea; and railing against God and Christ and the blessed Saints. '
While he was speaking he crossed himself, and when he had finished he
drew the nightcap over his ears, to shut out the noise, and closed his
eyes, and composed himself to sleep.

The lay brother found Brother Kevin, Brother Dove, Brother Little Wolf,
Brother Bald Patrick, Brother Bald Brandon, Brother James and Brother
Peter sitting up in bed, and he made them get up. Then they bound
Cumhal, and they dragged him to the river, and they dipped him in it at
the place which was afterwards called Buckley's Ford.

'Gleeman,' said the lay brother, as they led him back to the
guest-house, 'why do you ever use the wit which God has given you to
make blasphemous and immoral tales and verses? For such is the way of
your craft. I have, indeed, many such tales and verses well nigh by
rote, and so I know that I speak true! And why do you praise with rhyme
those demons, Finvaragh, Red Aodh, Cleena, Aoibhell and Donn? I, too,
am a man of great wit and learning, but I ever glorify our gracious
abbot, and Benignus our Patron, and the princes of the province.