New Ownership

Hello all, this is Darran McManus. I’m just making a short announcement that I am now running this blog. I’m currently thinking about what texts or other media to cover. One thing I’d like to focus on is getting the works of An Suibhneach Meann up on the site and some material from the Béara dialect of Cork Irish to give a bit of a contrast with the Músgraí material. Possibly a dictionary to help people read Máirtín Verling’s wonderful collections.

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Lúcián 30

XXX. Zeús agus Hermés agus Mómos.

Cúirt na nDéithe

Duine de sna déithibh ab ea Mómos agus b’é “Conán Maol” na ndéithe é. Chonaic sé go mbíodh na seanadhéithe ag cnáimhseáil agus ag gearán eatarthu féin mar gheall ar na déithibh óga ’ bheith dá leogaint isteach eatarthu agus ag teacht chun búird in éineacht leó. Thug Mómos fé ndeara an chogarnach agus an chnáimhseáil. Bhí cúirt na ndéithe ar siúl agus do labhair Mómos os cómhair na cúirte. Bhí, mar ba chóir, Zeús, rí na ndéithe, ar an mbínse thuas. Do labhair sé ar dtúis:-

Zeús. Cuiridh uaibh an chnáimhseáil feasta, a dhéithe, agus an chogarnach, agus an gearán a bhíonn agaibh á dhéanamh mar gheall ar na déithibh nua so a bhíonn ag teacht agus ag suí chun búird ’núr gcuíbhreann agus nách fiú iad é. Do glaodh an chúirt seo chun nithe den tsórd san do shocrú. Dá bhrí sin, éinne go bhfuil rud le rá aige labhradh sé amach agus deineadh sé a ghearán. Agus deinse, a Herméis, gnó na cúirte d’fhógairt de réir na dlí.

Herm. Éistídh! Bídh ciúin! Cé hé an dia, de sna déithibh beachta ’narb é a gceart é, gur maith leis cainnt do dhéanamh sa chúirt? Ar choigríochaibh iasachta atá an chainnt le déanamh.

Móm. Ba mhaith liomsa cainnt a dhéanamh, a rí, i gcead duitse.

Zeús. Tá cead cheana agat ón bhfógra. Níl gá le cead agat uaimse.

Móm. Tá go maith. Tá so le rá agam. Deineann cuid againn gníomhartha gránna. Nuair a deintear déithe de chuid againn ní bhímíd sásta. Ní foláir leis an saghas san againn go ndéanfí déithe dá lucht friothálmha, leis, agus dá seirbhíseachaibh, agus go dtabharfí anso aníos ’nár measc iad agus go mbeidís ’na ndéithibh ar aon dul linne. Leog dom, a Iúpiteir, mo chainnt a dhéanamh gan chosc, de réir mo thoile féin, mar ní fhéadfainn cainnt a dhéanamh in aon chor mara bhfaighinn cead mo theangan. Is eól do gach éinne an teanga ’ bheith go héasca agam agus nách féidir liom í ’ chimeád socair nuair a chím an tuathal á dhéanamh. Ní spárálaim aon rud. Labhraim an rud is dó’ liom is ceart, gan eagla, gan scáth, gan aon rud a chimeád siar. Dá bhrí sin bítear i bhfeirg liom go minic agus curtar tromaíocht im leith agus tionnsclóireacht phoiblí. Ach ó is dleathach é, agus ó do fógradh é, agus ó tá do cheadsa agam, a Iúpiteir, chun labhartha ós árd, déanfad mo chainnt gan easnamh ’ fhágáilt uirthi. Tá a lán agus ní leór leó gur deineadh iad féin páirteach ’nár gcómhthionólaibh agus ’nár bhféastaíbh, bíodh ná fuil iontu ach leathdhéithe, gan a seirbhíseacha agus a lucht cómhóil do thabhairt leó aníos anso ar neamh agus a n-ainmneacha do chur sa leabhar i ganfhios. I dtreó go bhfuilid siad anois ar aon dul linn féin ins gach ceart agus in sna n-íbirtibh, agus gan an cháin allúrachais díolta acu.

Zeús. Ná habair aon rud i bhfoclaibh dorcha, a Mhómois, abair gach aon rud go soiléir solasmhar agus innis gach ainm. An chainnt sin agat á rá anois tá sí dá caitheamh amach agat de réir buille fé thuairim. Níl bac orainn í ’ ghreamú ar a lán, agus brí fé leith a bhaint aisti fé mar a dh’oiriúnfaidh sí duine fé leith. Tá an chainnt saoráideach agatsa agus ní healaí dhuit gan í ’ dhéanamh cruínn, iomlán.

Móm. Is maith é sin, a Iúpiteir. Taoi ’om spriocadh chun sriain a thabhairt dom theangain. Is ríoga uait sin, agus is ceart, agus is fial. Dá bhrí sin déarfad an ainm. Sin é an preabaire sin Díonusios go bhfuil a leath ’na dhuine, agus nách Gréagach féin é, óna mháthair. Níl ann ach mac iníne do Shurophoíneach éigin thar farraige. Do dlíodh an domharaitheacht do. Ní deirim cad é an saghas é féin. Ní thráchtaim ar a chaipín, ná ar a mheisceóireacht, ná ar an gcuma ’na siúlann sé. Measaim gur léir díbh uile cad é a bhuige agus a bhaineanda atá sé de réir nádúra, agus conas mar a bhíonn sé leathchraiceálta gach aon mhaidean, agus balaith fíona go láidir uaidh. Ní hé sin féin ach tá a chuallacht go léir tabhartha chúinn aníos anso aige; agus tá a aos ceóil aige á thabhairt leis; agus tá déithe déanta aige de Phan agus de Shilénus agus de sna Saturibh, cábóga tuatha agus aeirí gabhar, an chuid is mó acu; lucht léimrí; agus iad míchúmtha; adharca ar dhuine acu, agus é ’na ghabhar ón dá chromán síos, agus meigeall mór fada air, i dtreó gur beag ná gur cuma é nú pocán. Agus an duine eile acu, an Lúdach so anso, é ’na sheanduine mhaol agus caíncín leathan air, agus é ar muin asail formhór a shaeil. I dtaobh na Satur, féach na cluasa bioraithe atá orthu agus na hadhaircíní beaga mar ’ bheadh ar mheannán gabhair, agus iad maol, leis, ós Phrúgacha iad. Agus féach, tá eireaball thiar ar gach éinne acu! Sin iad na déithe atá tabhartha ag an mbioránach so dhúinn. An aon iúnadh gan urraim a bheith ag na daoine dhúinn nuair a chíd siad déithe chómh háiféiseach chómh míchúmtha! Ní hé sin féin ach do thug sé leis aníos, mar aon leó, beirt bhan, Áríádné, a leannán féin, bean acu, agus iníon an fheirmeóra Icarios an bhean eile; agus chuir sé caidhp Áríádné i measc na réilteann. Agus mar bharra ar gach áiféis, a dhéithe, thug sé chúinn aníos anso an gadhar, measán Erígoné, le heagla go mbeadh uaigneas ar an gcailín mara mbeadh a measán ar neamh aici, bhí a leithéid sin de chion aici air. Nách dó’ libh, a dhéithe, gur náire agus aithis agus cúis fonóide nithe den tsórd san? Ach fanaidh go n-airidh sibh i dtaobh tuilleadh acu.

Zeús. Chím an fuadar atá fút, a Mhómois. Seachain agus ná habair aon rud i dtaobh Asclépiois ná i dtaobh Heracléis. Leighseann Asclépios daoine ó ghalaraibh, agus dá bhrí sin tá sé chómh maith lena lán eile déithe; agus i dtaobh Heracléis, is mac dom féin é agus do thuíll sé an domharaitheacht lena mhórghníomharthaibh. Scaoil an bheirt sin thart agus ná cuir aon ní ’na leith.

Móm. Tá go maith, a Iúpiteir. Scaoilfead leó ar do shonsa bíodh go bhféadfainn a lán do rá leó. Gan aon ní eile do bhac tá rian na tine orthu fós. Agus go deimhin dá mbeadh cead cainnte againn d’fhéadfaimís a lán do chur id leith féin, a rí.

Zeús. Tá san dleathach go leór. Abair do rogha rud im choinnibh féin. An fánaíocht atá agat le cur im leith?

Móm. Sin é an rud adeirtear thíos i gCrété. Ach deirtear rud eile, leis, id thaobh ann. Ní chreidim é, áfach. Taispeántar do thuama ann! Agus ní chreidim an rud adeir na Gréagaigh Aigeiacha adeir ná fuil ionat ach malartán! Déarfad an méid seo, áfach, mar, dar liom, is cóir thu ’ dhaoradh mar gheall air. Is amhlaidh mar atá sé, a Iúpiteir, is iad do dhrochghníomarthasa fé ndeár ár gcomhthionóil a bheith lán mar atáid siad de chlaínn thabhartha, toisc tu ’ bheith páirteach le mnáibh daonna, ag dul síos ag triall orthu i riochtaibh iolartha, in iolthráthaibh, i dtreó go mbíodh scannradh orainn le heagla go mbéarfí ort agus tu id tharbh agus go ndéanfí thu ’ dh’íbirt; nú go mbéarfí ort agus tu id chith óir agus go ndéanfadh gabha geal éigin tu ’ dh’oibriú i t’órnáidíbh óir, agus in inead tu ’ bheith id Iúpiter againn gur id shlabhra muiníl a bheifá, nú id phráisléad, nú id fháinne cluaise. Ach pé’r domhan é tá an áit seo líonta agat de leathdhéithibh. Agus go deimhin féin is ait an scéal acu é. Aireófar lá éigin gur deineadh dia de Heraclés, agus ansan, go bhfuair Éuristéus bás, duine a bhí ní b’aoirde ná Heraclés! Ach chífar in aice ’ chéile tuama Éuristéuis an máistir, agus teampall Heracléis, an seirbhíseach! Agus sin é Díonusios, thíos i dTébés, ’na dhia, agus a ghaolta, Pentéus, Actéon, agus Léarchos, gan in éinne acu ach daonnaí bocht gan áird! Is tusa, a Iúpiteir, fé ndeár an t-olc go léir, mar nuair a dh’imís-se i ndiaidh na mban daonna dhein na déithe eile go léir aithris ort. Ní hiad na déithe fireanna amháin a dhein aithris ort ach, ní is rónáireach le hadmháil, do ghluais na déithe baineanna, leis, agus dheineadar a n-aimhleas. Féach Anchísés, agus Titónos, agus Endimíon, agus Iasón, agus an chuid eile acu. Ach ní déarfad a thuilleadh leó san. Bheadh obair rófhada agam dhá ndaoradh go léir.

Zeús. Scaoil thart Ganimédés, a Mhómois, beidh fearg orm chút má chuireann tú buaireamh ar an macaomh, ag lochtú a mhuíntire.

Móm. Is dócha go gcaithfead an fiolar do scaoileadh thorm, leis, agus gan a rá go bhfuil sé ar neamh againn. Tá sé ansan in áirde ar do shlait ríoga agat, agus nead déanta aige dho féin thuas id cheann, dhá chur ’na luí orainn go bhfuil sé ’na dhia. Ach is dócha go gcaithfar scaoileadh leis ar son Ghanimédéis. Ach Attis ansúd, a Iúpiteir, agus Corúbas, agus Sabásios, cad a thug anso isteach chúinn iad? Nú Mítrés sin an Médach, é sin go bhfuil an gúna gairid air agus an tíára. Ní Gréagach é. Dá n-óladh duine a shláinte ní thuigfeadh sé an chainnt. Chonaic na Scútaigh agus na Getaigh cad é an saghas iad so agus d’fhágadar slán go deó againne agus táid siad ag déanamh déithe dhóibh féin anois, fé mar is áil leó. Toghaid siad na déithe a thaithneann leó, díreach mar a thit amach i dtaobh Samolcsis seo gur shleamhnaigh a ainm isteach sa leabhar i ganfhios dúinn ar chuma éigin, agus ó bheith ’na dhaor go bhfuil sé ’na dhia againn!

Ach ní fiú biorán na nithe seo go léir, a dhéithe, seochas an dia seo ón Éigipt ’na bhfuil ceann an mhadra air. Cé hé thusa led thoil? Tá ceann madra ort agus éadach lín umat. Conas a thuillis-se dia ’ dhéanamh díot chun bheith anso ag amhastraigh orainn? Agus cad a thug anso an tarbh breac so ó Mhemphis nú cad chuige go n-adharfí é? An ndeineann sé targaireacht? An bhfuil fáidhí aige? Ach is nár liom trácht ar na híbisibh, agus ar na hápaibh agus ar na gabhraibh, agus ar na rudaíbh áiféiseacha eile seo. Ní fheadar ’en domhan cad a chomáin aníos anso ar neamh iad ón Éigipt! Conas a dh’fhuiligeann sibhse, a dhéithe, iad san do bheith dá n-adhradh mar aon libh? Ní headh ach dá n-adhradh os úr gcionn? Nú conas a dh’fhuiligis-se féin, a Iúpiteir, iad do theacht ort agus dhá adhairc reithe do chur ort?

Zeús. Gan amhras, a Mhómois, is rudaí náireacha na rudaí sin adeirir i dtaobh na nÉigipteach, ach mar sin féin tá brí diamhar lena lán acu agus ní cuí bheith ag déanamh magaidh fúthu gan aithne ’ bheith curtha orthu.

Móm. Is fíor go bhfuil gá mór againn le heólas agus le haithne chun a dh’fheiscint gur dia dia agus gur ceann madra ceann madra.

Zeús. Cuir uait adeirim leat. Ná labhair mar sin ar na hÉigipteachaibh. Déanfaimíd cómhairle ’na dtaobh uair éigin eile ar ár suaimhneas. Labhair ar an gcuid eile.

Móm. Ar Throphónios más ea, a Iúpiteir, agus ar Amphilochos, ós é is mó a chuireann buaireamh orm; mac an chuirpigh úd a mhairbh a mháthair, tá sé anois ag fáidheadóireacht i gCilícia, an duine macánta. Ag ínsint éithigh formhór na haimsire agus ag bualadh bobanna ar dhaoine ar dhá obolos. Níl cáil ortsa feasta, a Apollóin. Níl cloch ná altóir anois, ar a gcurtar íle, agus bláthanna, ná tugann targaireacht dúinn ach cleasaí éigin do chur ’na bhun, agus tá an dúthaigh lán díobh san. Sin í an íomhá sin Pholudámuis, an t-iomrascálaí, tá sí ag leigheas lucht éagruais in Oluimpia agus tá an rud céanna dá dhéanamh ag íomhá Théagenéis i dTásos. Agus deinid muíntir Ilioin íbirt chun Hectoir, agus chun Prótesilais, ar an dtaobh thall, sa Chersonéis.

Ach ó chuamair i líonmhaire tá mionna éithigh agus réabadh reilige tar éis dul i méid. Níl aon mheas orainn ná aon eagla ag daoine rómhainn in aon chor, ní nách iúnadh.

Sin iad anois na nithe a bhí agam le rá i dtaobh na mbastartaí seo atá againn, agus i dtaobh na muíntire ’nar cuireadh a n-ainmneacha sa leabhar i ganfhios. Ach táim ag éisteacht lena lán ainmneacha éagsamhlacha, ainmneacha atá ar nithibh ná fuil ar bith in aon chor agus nách féidir a bheith, agus ní féidir liom gan gáire ’ dhéanamh úmpu, a Iúpiteir. Cé hí, cuir i gcás, an Areté seo ’na ndeintear an fothram go léir mar gheall uirthi? Nú cé hí Fúsis? Nú cé hí an chiniúint Eimarmené? Nú cé hí Fortúna? Níl iontu ach ainmneacha folmha ar nithibh gan ghus, ainmneacha a cheap na héigse breallánta so againn is ea iad. Agus bíodh ná fuil iontu ach ainmneacha folmha táid na héigse á dh’áiteamh ar dhaoine gan chiall gur déithe iad i dtreó nách mian le héinne aon íbirt a dhéanamh chúinne, mar go dtuigeann gach éinne dá n-íbreadh sé deich míle heicatom ná beadh aon mhaith dho ann mar go gcómhlíonfaidh Fortúna an rud atá gealltha ó thosach ag an gCiniúint do gach duine, dar leis.

Fiafraím an méid seo dhíot, a Iúpiteir. An bhfeacaís féin riamh in aon áit éinne de sna déithibh sin, Areté, nú Fúsis, nú an chiniúint Eimarmené? Tá ’ fhios agam gur airís trácht orthu i scolaibh na n-éigse. Taíonn tú ana-bhodhar nú d’airís go minic na héigse sin ag búirthigh.

Ní foláir dom stad, bíodh go bhfuil a lán eile le rá agam. Chím go bhfuil fearg múiscilte agam lem chainnt. Airím siosarnach agus dranntú ón muíntir ná taithneann fírinne mo chainnte leó. Ní déarfad a thuilleadh ach led thoil, a Iúpiteir, léifead duit reacht atá scríofa agam ’na dtaobh.

Zeús. Léigh do reacht, a Mhómois. Ní gan fáth atá na gearánta so go léir déanta agat. Ní mór cosc do chur leis na holcaibh seo i dtreó ná raighidís i méid.

An Reacht

Go n-eirídh linn go geal!

Do cruinníodh an chómhairle de réir dlí, an seachtú lá den mhí; Iúpiter i gceannas; Poseídón ag stiúrú; Apollón ag faire; Mómos mac Núics ’na chléireach; agus do thairiscin Somnus an Reacht.

De bhrí go bhfuil slua iasachta, idir Ghréagachaibh agus allúraigh, nách fiú iad in aon chor go leogfí dhóibh bheith ar ár measc i gcómháitreabhacht linn agus gur cuireadh a n-ainmneacha sa leabhar i ganfhios, mar dhea gur dhéithe iad, i dtreó go bhfuil neamh lán díobh, agus go mbíonn seómra an óil ’na chíréip acu agus gleó cainnte acu agus teanga fé leith i mbéal gach éinne den tsloigisc; agus de bhrí go bhfuil ag dul dár gcuid ambrósia agus dár gcuid nectair mar gheall ar an sloigisc sin a bheith dhá n-ól orainn, agus go mbíd siad ag guailleáil na bhfíor ndéithe i leataoibh, a d’iarraidh go mbeadh tosach onóra acu féin, ní nách dleathach: Uime sin gurb é toil na cómhairle seo agus toil an phobail, go gcruinneófí cómhthionól ar mhullach Oluimpois, sa gheímhreadh seo chúinn; ansan mórsheisear de sna seandéithibh do thoghadh ’na lucht scrúdtha, triúr as an seanaid críonna, seanaid Chronois, agus ceathrar as an dáréag, agus Iúpiter ar an gceathrar san. An mhórsheisear lucht scrúdtha san do shuí ar bhínse agus dearbhú ’ dhéanamh dar Stúcs, mar is gnáth. Ansan Hermés do dhul agus fógra do chur amach dhá rá le gach éinne a mheasann gurb é a cheart é, teacht chun an chómhthionóil. Iad do theacht agus fínnithe acu, fínnithe dearbhaithe, agus fromtha acu ar céra díobh iad. Ansan iad do theacht ’na nduine is ’na nduine agus an lucht scrúdtha do dhéanamh amach an déithe iad nú nách ea agus marab ea an lucht scrúdtha dhá gcur síos thar n-ais go huaghannaibh agus go leachtaibh a sínsear. Ansan, má beirtear ar éinne acu ag teacht aníos arís ar neamh, tar éis an lucht scrúdtha dhá ghearradh amach, é ’ chaitheamh i ndiaidh mhullaigh a chínn isteach i dTartaros.

Agus gurb é toil na cómhairle seo, leis, gach dia do dhéanamh a ghnótha féin, agus gan dul lasmu’ dhe; gan Aténé ’ bheith ag déanamh leigheas ná Asclépios ag fáidheadóireacht, ná oiread san oibreacha ’ bheith ar siúl ag Apollón in’ aonar, ach go socródh sé ar bheith in’ fháidh nú ’na chruitire nú ’na liag, agus fanúint amhlaidh sin. Agus go n-órdófí do sna héigsibh gan bheith ag ceapadh ainmneacha nua agus gan bheith ag déanamh cainnte ar nithibh ná fuil eólas acu orthu. Agus éinne acu súd ’na bhfuil teampall curtha suas do agus íbirt á dhéanamh in onóir do, a n-íomhátha do leagadh agus íomhá Iúpiteir, nú íomhá Héra nú íomhá Apollóin, nú íomhá éinne eile de sna déithibh, do chur suas in’ inead, agus leogaint dá gcathrachaibh tuama nú leacht do chur suas dóibh, in inead altóra. Ach éinne ná freagróidh an fhógairt agus nách gá leis teacht i láthair an lucht scrúdtha, gurab ionann san do agus daorbhreith. Sin é an reacht agaibh.

Zeús. Go hana-cheart, a Mhómois. Gach éinne a mholann leis árdaíodh sé a lámh —. Ní hea, áfach, ach fágtar mar atá sé é. Tá ’ fhios agam go bhfuil a lán anso ná hárdódh lámh mholta dho. Imídh anois, agus nuair a chuirfidh Hermés an fógra amach tagaidh agus tugadh gach éinne fromtha soiléire leis le feiscint, ainm a athar agus a mháthar, agus conas agus cad uime ’nar deineadh dia dhe, an té ná beidh na fromtha san aige is cuma don lucht scrúdtha ceocu atá teampall ar an dtalamh aige nú ná fuil, nú ceocu ’ mheasaid daoine gur dia é nú ná measaid.

adhaircín: “little horn”. Pronounced /əir’kʹi:nʹ/.
adharc: “horn”. Pronounced /əirk/. With adhairc in the dual.
aeire: “shepherd”, or aoire in GCh. Traditionally written aodhaire, the spelling change of the mid-twentieth century has produced a GCh spelling that yields an incorrect pronunciation for speakers of Munster Irish. Pronounced /e:rʹi/.
Aigeiach: “an inhabitant of Aegium/Aigion”, a region of Greece.
aithis: “disgrace”.
allúrachas: “foreignness, foreign nature”, a word not found in dictionaries. Cáin allúrachais is glossed in the early editions of Lúcián as “naturalisation tax, import duty”, essentially meaning in context a duty paid by a foreigner to take part in ceremonies on an equal basis.
altóir: “altar”, with altóra in the genitive here. PUL has altórach in the genitive in some of his works.
aos: “people of a profession”. Aos ceóil, “musicians”.
ápa: “ape”, with ápaibh in the dative plural. PUL normally has apa, with no síneadh fada.
baineanda: “effeminate nature”. This is essentially an adjective, but used as an abstract noun here. Pronounced /binʹəndə/.
baineann: “female”; pronounced /binʹən/.
bastart: “bastard”, with bastartaí in the plural. GCh has bastard, with bastaird in the plural.
bínse: “judicial bench”.
bob: “trick”, with bobanna in the plural. Bob a bhualadh ar dhuine, “to play a trick on someone”.
bórd: “table”, or bord in GCh; with búird in the genitive singular.
breallánta: “silly”.
buige: “softness”, or boige in GCh.
cábóg: “a rustic, a clodhopper”.
caidhp: “cap, bonnet”; pronounced /kəipʹ/.
caíncín: “snub nose, prominent nose”, pronounced /ki:ŋ’kʹi:nʹ/.
cé: “who?” Céra díobh é, “which family or place he came from”. This form includes the indirect relative form of the copula, ultimately derived from cé gura(b) or cé ar(b).
cion: “regard, affection”; pronounced /kʹun/.
círéip: “uproar, tumult”, or círéib in GCh. The original text had círéib, but it seems likely this reflects intervention of an editor.
cnáimhseáil: “grumbling, complaining”. Pronounced /knɑ:vʹ-‘ʃa:lʹ/.
coigríoch: “stranger”, or coigríochach in GCh. Pronounced /kogʹi’rʹi:x/.
cómháitreabhacht: “cohabitation”. Pronounced /ko:-ɑ:tʹirʹəvəxt/.
cómhól: “drinking in common, carousel”. Lucht cómhóil, “drinking buddies”. Pronounced /ko:-o:l/.
daorbhreith: “condemnation”.
dáréag/dháréag: “twelve (people)”, pronounced with a broad r, /dɑ:’riag/. The evidence, e.g. from the Irish of AÓL, is that an unlenited dáréag is usual in WM Irish
diamhar: “mysterious, mystic”, or diamhair in GCh. PUL regularly writes this adjective with a broad r, although IWM would point to a slender r.
dranntú: “growling, snarling”, or drantú in GCh. Pronounced /draun’tu:/.
éasca: “easy, free, fluent”, pronounced /e:skə/. PUL wrote in NIWU (p43) that éasga would be better spelt aosga.
Éigipteach: “Egyptian”.
fáidheadóireacht: “prophesying”; pronounced /fɑ:gʹədo:rʹəxt/.
feirmeóir: “farmer”, pronounced /fʹerʹi’mʹo:rʹ/.
fiolar: “eagle”, or iolar in GCh. Pronounced /fʹulər/.
fíordhia: “true god”. Note eclipsis of each element of the compound in the genitive plural here, na bhfíor ndéithe.
fireann: “male”.
folamh: “empty”, with folmha in the plural. Pronounced /foləv, fo’lu:/.
fromadh: “testing, trying, proving”, or promhadh in GCh. This is a rare word, edited by Gerald O’Nolan as fromhadh in the published edition of PUL’s Gospels, but nearly all of PUL’s other works we find fromadh. Fromhadh is a higher-quality form, but fromadh is retained here, as PUL may not have known the correct pronunciation. The plural found here is fromtha. Pronounced /fromə, froumhə/.
gearán: “complaint”; pronounced /gʹi’rɑ:n~grʹɑ:n/. With gearánta in the plural.
Getach: “Goth”.
guailleáil: “jostling”.
gus: “energy, force, vigour”. Gan ghus, “insubstantial, worthless”.
heicatom: “hecatomb”, i.e. a hundred oxen being sacrificed at a time. FGB has heiceatóm. PUL also has íbirtí céad here.
íbis: “ibis” (a type of bird).
iolartha: “manifold, varied, diverse”; pronounced /ulərhə/.
iolthráthanna: “various times, various occasionis”. In iolthráthaibh, “on various occasions”. Lenition is shown here, but the form may be better as ioltráthanna.
leathchraiceálta: “half-crazed”. Pronounced /lʹa-xri’kʹɑ:lhə/.
léimreach: “jumping”, or léimneach in GCh. Pronounced /lʹe:mʹirʹəx/. Léimreach is a continuous act of leaping or jumping, as opposed to léim, the ordinary noun meaning “leaping, jumping” and léimt, the verbal noun meaning “leaping, jumping”. Lucht léimrí, “people who leap and dance”.
líonmhaire: “abundance”. FGB prefers líonmhaireacht. Dul i líonmhaire, “to grow numerous”.
macaomh: “young person, youth”.
malartán: “changeling”.
meannán: “kid, young goat”, pronounced /mʹə’nɑ:n/.
measán: “lap-dog”.
méid: “amount”. Dul i méid, “to increase, grow in number”.
meigeall: “goat’s beard; goatee”.
meisceóireacht: “drunkenness”.
mórghníomh: “great deed”.
nádúr: “nature”, with nádúra in the genitive here, where GCh has nádúir. De réir nádúra, “naturally, by nature”.
nár: “ashamed”. Is nár liom é, “I am ashamed of it”.
oibrím, oibriú: “to work”, in the transitive sense of “to work gold” into jewellery. Pronounced /ebʹi’rʹi:mʹ, ebʹi’rʹu:/.
oiriúnaim, oiriúnadh: “to suit, fit”. This is usually in the first declension in PUL’s works. DBÓC and AÓL had oiriúnaím, oiriúnú, as does GCh.
ós árd: “openly, out loud, in public”. Gerald O’Nolan commented in his Studies in Modern Irish Part I that the preposition os is “mostly pronounced as, except in ós árd, ós íseal” (p171).
Phrúgach: “Phrygian”, a resident of Phyrgia in western Anatolia.
práisléad: “bracelet”, or bráisléad in GCh. Pronounced /prɑ:s’le:d/.
reilig: “churchyard”. Réabadh reilige, “sacrilege”.
Satur: “Satyr”, with Saturibh in the dative plural. The Satyrs were nature spirits with some horse-like characteristics that accompanied the god Dionysus.
scoil: “school”, with the older dative plural scolaibh here.
seanadhia/seandia: “old god”, used of the Greek gods objecting to new foreign gods joining them on Olympus. Forms both with and without lenition are found here; compare seanduine.
siosarnach: “an act of hissing”.
sloigisc: “riff-raff, rabble”.
socraím, socrú: “to settle, place”. Pronounced /sokə’ri:mʹ, sokə’ru:/. Socrú ar rud do dhéanamh, “to decide to do something, to determine to do it”.
spárálaim, spáráil: “to spare”, pronounced /spɑ:’rɑ:limʹ, spɑ:’rɑ:lʹ/. This is regularly spelt sparáil, etc, in the original original. It may be that the length of the pretonic vowel is less apparent than that of the vowel of the stressed syllable.
spriocaim, spriocadh: the verb spriocaim exists in GCh only in the meaning “to fix, arrange”, but PUL uses this verb to mean “inspire”, a meaning that is covered by spreagaim in GCh. In his works, PUL also uses spreagaim in this meaning too, so the relationship between these forms is complex. Duine ’ spriocadh chun ruda, “to spur, urge or inspire someone to do something”.
srian: “reins” (as on a horse). Srian a thabhairt dod theangain, “to give free rein to your tongue”.
Surophoíneach: “Syro-Phoenician”.
tabhartha: “illegitimate”. Pronounced /tourhə/ (as a verbal adjective this word is pronounced /tu:rhə/).
téim, dul: “to go”. Impersonally, dul de means “to run out”. The construction dul de was the subject of a letter by PUL published in The Freeman’s Journal on March 17th 1915, where he explained that Michael Sheehan in his Gabha na Coille had cited this construction as an example of “obscure and unintelligible construction” and inaccurately accounted for it. Despite Dr Sheehan’s views, PUL insisted the construction was good Irish.
tionnsclóireacht: “plotting, mischief-making”. Pronounced /tʹu:skəlo:rʹəxt/, as shown by the original spelling tiúscalóireacht.
tuairim: “opinion, notion”. Fé thuairim, “random, haphazard”, of a blow. Buille fé thuairim, “guesswork, conjecture”.
tuath: “countryside district”. The genitive, tuatha, has adjectival force, in the sense of “rural”, equivalent to tuaithe in GCh. Although tuatha and tuaithe would have the same pronunciation, tuatha is acceptable as a genitive in the declension pattern of this noun and so is retained.
tuathal: “error, blunder”.

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Great Youtube stream by Irish nationalist

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Website likely to become available

Dear all, I’ve struggled with learning Irish for a long term, and learnt to cope with the vindictiveness and hatred of Irish people towards English people. I do not think anyone could justifiably feel proud of being Irish, or not unless he rejected the Anglophobic culture, but I’ve long thought of Irish in my mind as Language X, and enjoyed studying it despite Irish people. I thought of deleting this website, but I think it would be unfair to do so, having received a lot of help, especially from Dr Seán Ua Súilleabháin of University College Cork, but also from people in the Muskerry Gaeltacht. But if Britain does not leave the EU on March 29th, I will have to hand over this website to someone else. I have no admiration for a culture of spiteful people, a country that carefully coaches its children in hatred, and teaches them a un-nuanced version of history that includes many factual falsehoods. I don’t think this is really what even the Irish Volunteers were thinking of in 1916, who might have been surprised that modern Ireland had taken so much from Britain and continued to bite the hand that feeds it. Ireland’s modern prosperity was not paid for by the EU – as the EU has no money of its own that it does not get from net contributors to the EU – but by Britain. I find Ireland’s political culture vomit-inducing. If anyone with a proven interest in Cork Irish would like to own this website, now would be a good time to speak up and volunteer to take over the site.

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Lúcián 29

XXIX. Tímón

(Ar leanúint.)

Ní héidir gur ag taibhreamh atáim agus go ndúiseóinn agus ansan ná beadh san ór so go léir ach gual! Ach is ór fírinneach é. Is ea go deimhin; agus an séala ceart buailte ar gach píosa dhe; agus é go breá buí trom taithneamhach. Is breá liom bheith ag féachaint air!

Mo ghrá thu, a óir, a stór na cine daonna. Is breá do shnua gan feó, fé sholas gréine!

Tar chúm anso! Tar chúm, a ghile mo chroí! Admhaím anois gur dhein Zeús ór de féin uaireanta, óir cé hí an chúileann ná glacfadh an t-ór agus é ag teacht ’na chith anuas trí bhuaic an tí chúithi! Ó, a Mhídais agus a Chroésois agus a shaibhreas Deilphois, cad é ’ bhrí sibh anois seochas Tímón agus saibhreas Thímóin? Níl rí na bPersach féin chómh saibhir le Tímón. ’Sea! a ghrafáinín, agus tusa a chasóigín leathair, ní mór dhom sibh a chur suas anso ar crochadh in onóir don Phan so. Ceannód an pháirc seo agus déanfad caisleán inti, caisleán a bheidh díreach mór mo dhóthain féin chun cónaithe ann, agus cuirfead mo chuid óir isteach ann, agus fanfad ann go bhfaighead bás, agus ansan beidh mo chaisleán mar thuama agam.

Sea anois, mise agus me féin, deinimís dlí dhúinn féin, reacht a bheidh i bhfeidhm an chuid eile dár saol.

Dlitear — gan sinn a dhul i ngaire aon duine. Gan aon duine do theacht ’nár ngaire. Gan aithne ’ chur ar aon duine. Gan a thabhairt d’aon duine beó ach tarcaisne. Agus na focail úd, .i. “cara”, “aoi”, “atrua”, níl iontu ach gaoth. Agus trua do lucht buartha, nú fóirithint ar an ndealbh, tá san i gcoinnibh ár ndlí; drochnós is ea é. Bíodh mo bheatha aonaránach ar nós beatha an mhadra allta, gan de chara agam ach Tímón amháin, gan sa chuid eile go léir ach namhaid agus lucht braith, gur salachar ar dhuine teangmháil in aon chor le héinne acu. Mo mhallacht ar an lá a thiocfaidh éinne acu im radharc. Is mar a chéile liom iad agus íomhátha cloiche nú práis. Ní ghlacfad teachtaireacht uathu ná ní dhéanfad aon mhargadh leó. Ná tagaidís thar teórainn m’uaignis isteach. Na focail úd, áfach, “lucht aon chine”, “lucht aon treabhchais”, “lucht aon phobail”, agus “lucht aon tíre”, leis, níl iontu ach folús. Do cheap daoine gan chiall iad chun fothraim a dhéanamh. Bíodh Tímón saibhir in’ aonar; sámh in’ aonar; tarcaisneach ar chách uile; saor ó ghráinniúlacht lucht plámáis. Deineadh sé íbirt in’ aonar chun na ndéithe. Itheadh sé a chuid bídh ’na chuíbhreann féin, ná bíodh de chómharsain aige ach é féin. Ná bíodh de theórannach aige ach é féin. Cimeádadh sé uaidh amach an chuid eile. Agus gan aon agó bíodh so ’na reacht; ná tabharfaidh sé a lámh d’éinne ach do féin; agus nuair a thiocfaidh an bás air gurb é féin a chuirfidh an choróinn ar a cheann. Agus ná bíodh d’ainm air ach an ainm álainn mhilis sin, .i. Fuathadóir daoine. Bíodh mo bhéasa dothíosach, garg, stuacach, tútach, neamhatruach. Má fheicim duine dá loscadh agus go liúfaidh sé orm an tine do mhúchadh dho, nár dheinead de mhúchadh ar an dtine ach pic agus íle do chaitheamh uirthi! Má fheicim duine ag imeacht le fánaidh na habhann agus go liúfaidh sé orm é ’ shaoradh ón mbás, nár dheineadsa de shaoradh air ach é ’ shá síos ar mhullach a chínn fén uisce i dtreó ná tiocfaidh sé aníos a thuilleadh. Sin mar a gheóbhaid siad an rud atá tuíllte acu uaim!

Tímón, an Colutéach, mac Echratídéis is é a thug isteach an reacht so. An Tímón céanna is é ’ chuir an reacht fé mholadh an phobail. Bíodh amhlaidh! Dlitear na nithe seo agus cuirimís go seasmhach i bhfeidhm iad!

Ach san am gcéanna b’fheárr liom ná rud maith go mbeadh fios an méid seo acu go léir, .i. gur fear ana-shaibhir me. Do thachtfadh an t-eólas san iad.

Ach cad é seo a chím? Cad é an fuadar é seo airiú? Táid siad ag rith chúm as gach áird agus ceó bóthair orthu; agus saothar orthu. Fuaradar balaith mo chuid óir ar chuma éigin. Cad is ceart dom a dhéanamh leó? Dul suas agus seasamh ar an gcnucán san agus na clocha do raideadh leó anuas, nuair a bhead os a gcionn? Nú an fearra dhom an dlí do bhriseadh an t-aon uair amháin seo i dtreó go bhféadfad iad do tharcaisniú agus iad do chrá leis an dtarcaisne. Is dó’ liom gurb in é is feárr a dhéanamh. Fanfad anso go dtagaid siad. Cé hé seo ar tosach, ámh? Gnatónídés an plámásaí! Tamall ó shin nuair ’ iarras béile na hoíche air thug sé blúire ’ théad dom! An fear a dh’óladh dabhach ar fad go minic ageam thighse agus d’aiseacadh arís é! Is maith a dhein sé agus teacht roimis an gcuid eile. Bainfar an chéad bhéic as.

Gnat. Ná deirinnse féin i gcónaí nár bhaoghal go dtabharfadh na déithe faillí i dTímón, an fear fónta? Móra dhuit, a Thímóin, a fhir álainn, a fhir an chroí mhóir!

Tím. Agus duitse féin a Ghnatónídéis, a fhir an bhuilg mhóir chraosaigh agus an chroí is measa dá raibh riamh i nduine!

Gnat. Fear suilt ab ea thu riamh, ach ca bhfuil do bhórd agus do bhia? Thugas dán liom duit, dán filíochta, den fhilíocht so a tháinig amach le déanaí.

Tím. Bainfidh an grafán so a mhalairt sin d’fhilíocht asat, a chladhaire!

Gnat. Cad é seo mar obair! ’Om bualadh! Ó! Ó! Beid fínnithe agam ort, a Thímóin, i láthair an Areiopagois! Dar Heraclés ach beidh!

Tím. Má fhanann tú puínn eile aimsire ansan is é do mharbh a bheidh le cur im leith!

Gnat. Ní hea, a Thímóin, ach féadfair na cneathacha a chuir do ghrafán orm do leigheas le roinnt bheag óir a chaitheamh orthu. Is ana-mhaith an rud ór chun cneadh do leigheas.

Tím. An bhfuileann tú ansan fós?

Gnat. Táim ag imeacht; ach ní maith an mhaise agatsa é tu ’ bheith iompaithe amach chómh neamaitheach tar éis tu ’ bheith chómh tairbheach.

Tím. Cé hé an fear maol so chúinn, ámh? An plámásaí is bréine dhíobh go léir! Thugas feirm thailimh don rógaire sin agus thugas dhá thalant do mar spré dá inín, nuair a bhí sé ag moladh mo ghlóir go hárd in’ aonar agus an chuid eile acu ciúin. Duairt sé gur bhinne me ná an eala agus dhearbhaigh sé ann. Ach go déanach, nuair a bhíos gan bheith ar fónamh, chuas ag triall air dhá iarraidh air cúnamh éigin a thabhairt dom. Is amhlaidh a ghoibh sé den fhuip orm.

Phil. Airiú nách beag an náire atá oraibh? Aithníonn sibh Tímón anois. Cara agus cómhalta dí ’ dh’ól is ea Gnatónídés do anois. Imbriathar ach gur tugadh duit an rud a bhí tuíllte agat, a bhioránaigh, mar gheall ar do mhíbhaochas. Ach sinne a sheanachómhaltaí, agus a lucht aon chine agus aon tíre, féach chómh breá chómh réidh agus ’ thagaimíd ag triall air, i dtreó ná measfí go mbeimís ag brú air. Móra dhuit, a dhuin’ uasail! Ná bíodh aon iúntaoibh agat as na plámásaithibh bréana san. Fé dhéin do bhídh a thagaid siad. Níl iontu, áfach, le fírinne ach mar a bheadh fiacha dúbha. Ní féidir duit feasta aon iúntaoibh a bheith agat as na daoine atá anois ann. Táid siad go léir go holc agus go míbhaoch. Is amhlaidh a bhíos féin ag teacht chút chun go dtabharfainn duit an talant so (cúpla céad púnt) agus go mbeadh sé agat agus go mb’fhéidir go ndéanfadh sé áise dhuit go luath. D’airíos, agus me ag teacht, go raibh saibhreas mór tagaithe chút. Nuair ’ airíos an méid sin do chasfainn thar n-ais ach gur mheasas nárbh fhearra dhom rud a dhéanfainn ná teacht agus cómhairle ’ thabhairt duit i dtaobh an tsaibhris sin. B’fhéidir, áfach, ná fuil aon ghá agatsa le cómhairle uaimse. Taoi féin chómh heagnaí sin go bhféadfá cómhairle ’ thabhairt uait, dá mba do Nestor é.

Tím. B’fhéidir é, a Philiádéis, ach drid chúm i leith. Tabharfad roinnt síbhialtachta dhuit ón ngrafán so.

Phil. Ó, a dhaoine! Tá mo phlaosc briste aige. Sin é a bhaochas orm i dtaobh cómhairle a leasa ’ thabhairt do.

Tím. Féach! Seo chúinn an tríú duine acu, an cainnteóir Déméas. Tá bille dlí ’na láimh dheis aige. Agus deir sé go bhfuil gaol aige liom. Do dhíol sé sin leis an gcathair, aon lá amháin, sé talanta déag a fuair sé uaimse. Do daoradh é agus do cuireadh i ngeímhlibh é mar ní raibh an t-airgead aige le díol. Tháinig trua agamsa dho agus d’fhuasclas é. Le déanaí, áfach, nuair a ceapadh é chun airgid an dráma do roinnt agus chuas-sa ag triall air ag lorg an méid den airgead san a bhí ag teacht chúm, duairt sé ná feidir sé ar bhaineas leis an gcathair in aon chor!

Dém. Móra dhuit, a Thímóin! A mhórthairbhe do chine! A thaca na nAténeach! a Thuairiní catha na Gréige! Táid na daoine cruinnithe le fada, cheana féin, agus an dá sheanaid ag feitheamh leat. Ach éist ar dtúis leis an reacht so atá scríofa agamsa id thaobh:—

De bhrí go bhfuil Tímón mac Echratídéis, an Colutéach, ní hamháin in’ fhear álainn fhónta, ach fós in’ fhear eagnaí thar fhearaibh na Gréige go léir, agus go bhfuil a shaol caite aige ag déanamh tairbhe don Ghréig, agus gur rug sé bua cómhraic agus bua cuisíochta, aon lá amháin, in Oluimpia; agus bua i gcarbad na gceithre gcapall agus i gcarbad an dá bhramach” —

Tím. Ach ní rabhas-sa riamh in Olumpia. Ní rabhas riamh ag féachaint ar an ngleó, ní áirím bheith páirteach ann.

Dém. Is cuma san. Raghair ann ’na dhiaidh so agus is feárr an scéal do chur síos anois — “agus gur dhein sé mórghaisge anuiridh ar son na cathrach i gcoinnibh na nAcharneach, agus do leag sé míle de sna Peloponésachaibh —”.

Tím. Airiú ní rabhas-sa riamh ar aon tslógadh ná in aon chath —.

Dém. Labhrann tusa go húmhal ort féin, ach dob olc an mhaise dhúinne gan cuímhneamh ar do mhaitheasaíbh — “Agus ’na theannta san dhein sé tairbhe ana-mhór don chathair, ag scrí’ reacht, ag tabhairt cómhairle, ag stiúrú ár sló. Mar gheall ar na nithibh sin go léir is maith leis an Seanaid agus leis an bpobal, agus le treabhchasaíbh Eliaia, agus le muíntiríbh na cathrach fé leith, agus leis na daoine go léir i gcoitine, go gcurfí suas macasamhail óir de Thímón, in aice le macasamhail Aténé, san Acropolis, agus caor tóirthní ’na láimh dheis aige, agus lasracha as a cheann, agus go gcurfí seacht coróinní óir air, agus na coróinní sin d’fhógairt inniu ag na tragóidíbh nua so Díonusiois. (Mar ní foláir na tragóidí san do dhéanamh inniu ar a shon.) Déméas, an cainnteóir oirirc, a ghaol gairid agus a dhalta, is é do thairiscin an reacht so”. Agus go deimhin is cainnteóir uasal Tímón féin agus is aon ní eile is maith leis é. Seo dhuit an reacht anois. Agus ba mhaith liom, leis, mo mhac a thabhairt ag triall ort. Tá “Tímón” tabhartha agam mar ainm air, t’ainmse féin:—

Tím. Conas san, a Dhéméas, agus gan tu pósta in aon chor, chómh fada agus is eól dúinn?

Dém. Is cuma san — pósfad, agus beidh leanbh agam, leanbh mic, agus tá “Tímón” agam á thabhairt anois mar ainm air.

Tím. Ní fheadarsa an bpósfair in aon chor tar éis an bhuille seo dem ghrafán.

Dém. Ó! Cad é sin agat á dhéanamh? An í an tíoránacht atá agat á ghlacadh go mbuaileann tú saorchlanna, agus gan tu féin saor ar fad ná i t’Aténeach? Ach díolfair as so, agus a loscadh an dúna agus as na coirthibh eile.

Tím. Níor loisc éinne an dún, a chuirpigh. Níl ionat ach fínné bréagach.

Dém. Ach más ea taoise ag saibhriú agus is amhlaidh a thóchais an ciste poiblí.

Tím. Thugais t’éitheach arís. Níor tóchadh an ciste ach chómh beag agus do loisceadh an dún.

Dém. Tóchfar ar ball é, agus tá a raibh ann agatsa anois.

Tím. Seo buille eile den ghrafán duit.

Dém. Ó mo dhrom!

Tím. Cuir uait an screadach nú buailfead an tríú buille ort. Is ait an rud é má rugas bua cómhraic agus iomrascála in Oluimpia agus má leagas míle Lacedémónach gan arm im láimh agam, a rá ná féadfainn gabháil ar spreallairín bréan mar thusa agus an grafán so im láimh agam. Ach cé hé seo airiú? An é Trasuclés an fáidh é? Ní hé a mhalairt é, dar fia. Féach mar a chuireann sé a chuid féasóige uaidh amach, agus mar ’ árdaíonn sé suas a dhá mhalainn. Tá sé ag cainnt leis féin, agus é ag teacht go dothíosach agus go gruama agus a dhá shúil ar dianleathadh, agus a ghruaig caite siar dá éadan aige, i dtreó gur dhó’ le duine gurbh é Boréas é, nú Trítón, in sna peictiúiríbh úd a dhein Seúcsis. Sid é an fear úd a thugann na mílte cómhrá uaidh gach maidin, go dea-labhartha, ag moladh dei-bhéas agus ag cáineadh drochiompair, ag moladh measarthachta agus ag cáineadh rabairne; agus é go piocaithe, beárrtha, dathúil, dea-éadaigh, galánta, macánta, stuidéartha ’na shiúl; ach nuair a thagann sé chun a dhínnéir um thráthnóna, tar éis fothragtha dho, go síneann an giolla corn mór fíona chuige agus go sloigeann sé an fíon láidir go craosach, agus ná bíonn aon chuímhne aige ar an gcainnt bhreá úd a labhair sé ar maidin, ach é ag alpadh an bhídh ar nós an mhadra agus súlach na feóla ag rith síos ar a smigín agus é cromtha síos chun na méise, agus a dhá uillinn leata amach aige, agus iad ag dul in easnaíochaibh an fhir is giorra dho; agus ansan, é ag cimilt a mhéire den mhéis mórthímpall agus á líorac lena theangain agus á súrac, le heagla go raghadh aon phioc den mhéathras amú uaidh. É i gcónaí go doshásta, ag brath air gurbh é féin a gheóbhadh an císte slán, nú an mhuc, nú pé sólaist eile a shanntaíonn craos ocrach. É caoch ar meisce, ní hamháin chómh fada le hamhrán agus le ceáfraíol, ach fós chómh fada le bheith drochbhéalach, feargach. Gleó cainnte aige, cainnt mheisce, i dtaobh eagna agus i dtaobh creidiúna, agus é féin, san am gcéanna leathbhalbh ón ól, ag caidreáil agus ag snagaireacht, go dtí fé dheireadh go gcaitear é ’ bhreith ón mbórd agus é ag aiseac agus ag úrlacan, agus gan é ábalta ar aon chiscéim a shiúl gan duine fén’ oscaill.

Sin mar a bhíonn sé agus é ar meisce, ach nuair a bhíonn sé ar a chéill ní leogfadh sé an chraobh le héinne in ínsint éithigh, i ndrochmhúineadh, ná i sainnt. Dá éaghmais sin is é togha na bplámásaithe é. Ní chuirfeadh mionna éithigh aon chlóic in aon chor air. Is é an feall a bhíonn á ghiollacht, agus an neamhnáire dhá choímhdeacht. Is é an dubh ’na gheal é go beacht, go hiomlán, go hiolchríochnaithe. Ach dá bheachtaithe atá sé is geárr go mbainfeadsa béic as. Éimh! Féach airiú! Trasuclés tagaithe chúinn fé dheireadh thiar thall.

Tras. Ní mar iad súd eile a thánagsa chút, a Thímóin. Ag déanamh iúnadh ded shaibhreas, ded chuid airgid agus ded chuid óir agus ded bhórdaibh flaithiúla is ea ’ thánadar súd chun bheith ag cárnadh plámáis ar dhuine mar thusa atá chómh dea-chroíoch agus chómh hollamh ar do chuid do roinnt. Is eól duit go mbíonn mo dhóthainse de bhéile i gcíste baise agus ná fuil annlann is feárr liom leis an gcíste ná oinniún fiain nú blúire biolair, nú gráinne salainn mar shólaist, agus is as an naoi dtiobraide a thagann mo dheoch. An seanabhrat so umam is uaisle liom é ná brat corcra dá fheabhas, agus mar le hór, is cuma é nú cloichíní grin ar thráigh mar a mheasaim. Ar mhaithe leatsa is ea do thánag, le heagla go ndéanfadh an saibhreas cealgach so aimhleas duit. Do dhein a leithéid aimhleas tiubaisteach do dhuine go minic cheana, aimhleas nár leighseadh. Dá nglacthá mo chómhairlese do chaithfá uait isteach sa bhfarraige é. Níl aon ghá agatsa leis mar is fear tu a thuigeann saibhreas na heagna. Ach féach, más mian leat é ’ chaitheamh sa bhfarraige ná caith rófhada amach é, a mhic ó. Féadfair siúl amach leis go dtí go mbeidh an t-uisce suas go crománaibh ort, in áit ná feicfidh éinne thu ach mise. Mara maith leat é sin a dhéanamh féadfair rud is feárr ná é do dhéanamh. Dein é ’ chaitheamh amach as do thigh láithreach. Ná cimeád oiread agus obolos de agat féin. Roinn ar na bochtaibh é. Tabhair, chúig dhrachma do dhuine, trí púint seacht do dhuine eile, leath-thalant do dhuine eile. Ach má bhíonn fáidh orthu is ceart a dhúbailt sin a thabhairt do, nú a thrí oiread. Im thaobh féin de, ní har mhaithe liom féin a dh’iarrfinn aon chuid de ach i dtreó go mbeadh sé agam le tabhairt do lucht gátair. Dhéanfadh sé an gnó dá líonthá an mála beag so dhom. Ní théann ann ach dhá bhuiséal aiginétacha. Is ceart don fháidh gan bheith rórabairneach. Ní ceart do a shanntú ach an méid a raghaidh ’na mhála.

Tím. Is maith í do chainnt, a Thrasucléis. Ach in inead do mhála, líonfad do cheann, mara miste leat é, le buillíbh ón ngrafán so agus tabharfad buille mar thuilleadh dhuit i dtreó ná beidh peaca an tómhais orm.

Tras. Ó! A dhaoine agus a dhlithe! Cuirpeach ag gabháil de ghrafán orainn i dtír atá saor!

Tím. Cad é an locht atá agat air, a Thrasucléis a mhic? An amhlaidh nár thugas do cheart duit? Fan más ea agus tabharfaidh mé tuilleadh dhuit. Ach féach airiú! Iad go léir ag teacht in éineacht, Blepsias agus Laches agus Gniphon, lán an bhaíll díobh le cur ag gol! Tá tuirse ar mo ghrafán bocht. Raghad suas ar an gcnucán so agus raidfead na clocha leó.

Bleps. Ná caith linn, a Thímóin. Táimíd ag imeacht.

Tím. B’fhéidir é ach ní imeóidh sibh gan fuil. Cuirfead cneathacha oraibh ag imeacht díbh.

Acharneach: “inhabitant of Acharnae”, which was a suburb of ancient Athens.
agó: “reservation, stipulation”. Gan aon agó, “without any objection or gainsay”.
aiginétach: “Aeginetan”, of unit of measurement local to Aegina in Greece. Aeginetan measures were used alongside Attic ones in Ancient Greece and gradually came to be seen as standard. Hence, dhá bhuiseál aiginétacha means “two standard bushels”.
áise: “convenience”, or áis in GCh. Dhéanfadh sé áise dhuit, “it would come in handy”.
allta: “wild, fierce”, pronounced /aulhə/.
alpaim, alpadh: “to swallow voraciously, devour”.
annlann: “condiment”, or anlann in GCh. Annlann le císte, “a condiment or relish to go with a pastry”.
anuiridh: “last year”, or anuraidh in GCh. Pronounced /ə’nirʹigʹ/.
aoi: “guest, visitor”.
aonaránach: “solitary”.
bille: “bill”. Bille dlí, “decree, enactment”.
bínn: “sweet (of sound)”, with binne in the comparative.
biolar: “watercress”. PUL also has biolrach in his works.
bramach: “colt”, or bromach in GCh; pronounced /bər’mɑx/.
brath: “expectation; spying”. Lucht braith, “spies” (adjusted from PUL’s spelling lucht brath).
bréan: “putrid”; also “despicable”.
buiséal: “bushel”.
caisleán: “castle”; pronounced /kiʃ’lʹɑ:n/.
caoch: “blind”. Caoch ar meisce, “blind drunk”.
cárnaim, cárnadh: “to heap up”.
casóigín: “little coat”.
ceáfraíol: “prancing, cutting capers, gambolling”, or ceáfráil in GCh. Pronounced /kʹɑ:fəri:l/.
ciall: “sense, normal state of mind”, with céill in the dative. Ar do chéill, “sober”.
cine: “race”, which is feminine in PUL’s Irish, but masculine in GCh. An chine daonna, “the human race”: the d is not lenited in this expression. It seems an chine daonna is a fused phrase in WM Irish; this may be influenced by the noun daonna, if we take the view that an chine daonna could contain the genitive plural of daonna and not the identical adjective.
ciste: “chest, coffer; treasury”.
cloichín: “little stone”; pronounced /klo’hi:nʹ/.
cneadh: “wound”, or cneá in GCh. Along with a number of other words where the older spelling is in -adh or -agh, cneadh has a short vowel in the nominative singular, /knʹa(h)/. The plural here is cneathacha, /knʹi’hɑxə/.
cnucán: “hillock”, or cnocán in GCh. Pronounced /knə’kɑ:n.
coímhdeacht: “accompaniment; accompanying”. Pronounced /ki:nlʹəxt/ according to IWM (see the note to §409); this pronunciation is not shown in PUL’s works, and PUL may have had a d here.
coitine: “generality”, or coitinne in GCh. I gcoitine, “in general”. This word illustrates the eschewing of /ŋ/ in the pronunciation in a word that has a previous guttural, accounting for the single n.
craos: “gullet, throat; gluttony”.
cromán: “hip”.
cuíbhreann: “common table, mess”; pronounced /ki:rʹən/. ’Na chuíbhreann féin, “at table alone, dining alone”.
cúileann: “fair maiden”.
dalta: “pupil, disciple”.
dea-chroíoch: “good-hearted, kind-hearted”.
dea-éadaigh: “well-dressed”. This is ultimately the genitive of dea-éadach, but used adjectivally.
dea-labhartha: “eloquent”; pronounced /dʹa-lourhə/.
dei-bhéas: “good habit, custom”; in the plural, “morals”. GCh has dea-bhéas.
dlím, dlí: “to enact as a law”.
dothíosach: “inhospitable, churlish”.
drachma: drachma, a Greek unit equivalent to six obols, or just over 4 grams.
drochbhéalach: “foulmouthed”.
drochnós: “vice, bad habit”; pronounced /dro-no:s/.
dún: “fort”, with dúna in the genitive. This is used here in reference to the Acropolis.
eala: “swan”; pronounced /ɑlə/.
easna: “rib”, with easnaíocha in the plural where GCh has easnacha, pronounced /ɑsnə, ɑs’ni:xə/. Usually asna in PUL’s works, showing a preceding particle would end in a broad consonant.
feadar: “I know”, usually found in negative or interrogative contexts, with ní fheadar meaning “I don’t know, I wonder”. While this verb is spelt ní fheadair sé in both the present‑ and past‑tense meanings in GCh, there was traditionally a distinction between ní fheadair sé, present tense, and ní fheidir sé, past tense, pronounced /nʹi: edʹirʹ ʃe:/. This distinction is found here, but Scéalaíocht Amhlaoibh Í Luínse (e.g. ní fheadair sé on p25) shows that AÓL didn’t have it.
feirm: “farm”; pronounced /fʹerʹimʹ/. Also feirm thailimh.
fiain: “wild”. As the pronunciation is /fʹianʹ/, there seems no reason for the GCh spelling, fiáin, other than that the original spelling was fiadhain.
flaithiúil: “generous”.
fothragaim, fothragadh: “to bathe”; pronounced /fohərəgimʹ, fohərəgə/. The verbal adjective here is fothragtha; fothraigthe is found in some of PUL’s other works.
fuasclaim, fuascailt: “to release, redeem, save”, or fuasclaím, fuascailt in GCh. Pronounced /fuəskəlimʹ, fuəskihlʹ/.
fuathadóir: “hater”, or fuathaitheoir in GCh. Fuathadóir daoine, “misanthrope”.
galánta: “decent, fine”; pronounced /glɑ:ntə/.
garg: “rough, fierce”; pronounced /gɑrəg/.
geímheal: “fetter, chain”; pronounced /gʹi:l/. With geímhle in the plural.
gile: “whiteness, brightness”. A ghile mo chroí, “my beloved!”
gráinne: “grain”. Gráinne salainn, “a pinch of salt”.
gráinniúlacht: “abhorrence, abomination”, or gráiniúlacht in GCh.
grean: “gravel, grit, coarse sand”, with grin in the genitive.
iolchríochnaithe: “perfectly finished, finished off in many ways”.
iomlán: “full, whole”. Pronounced /umə’lɑ:n/.
lasair: “flame”, with lasracha in the nominative plural. Pronounced /lɑsirʹ, lɑsərəxə/.
líoracaim, líorac: “to lick”; FGB gives the verbal noun líreac (GCh uses lím as the finite verb “to lick”).
macasamhail: “copy”. Pronounced /mɑkə’saulʹ/. The entry in PUL’s NIWU (p74) shows that he also accepted the form macshamhail.
mallacht: “curse”, pronounced /mə’lɑxt/.
margadh: “deal, bargain”, pronounced /mɑrəgə/.
méathras: “fatness”, of the land; pronounced /mʹe:rhəs/. FGB has méithe; PSD shows this word exists in a large variety of variant forms. PUL’s consistent spelling is méithras.
mias: “dish”, with méise in the genitive and méis in the dative.
míbhaoch: “ungrateful”; or míbhuíoch in GCh.
míbhaochas: “ingratitude”, or míbhuíochas in GCh.
mórghaisce: “great exploit”.
mórthairbhe: “great benefit”, pronounced /muər-hɑrʹifʹi/. A mhórthairbhe do chine! in the vocative stands here where “ornament of our race!” stands in one English-edition of Lucian. The original spelling was a mhóir thairbhthe do chine!, but slenderisation of the r is rejected in this edition.
muíntir: “people, folk”. The dative plural here is muíntiríbh.
naoi: “nine”, pronounced /ne:/.
neamaitheach: “disobliging, useless”, or neamaiteach in GCh; pronounced /nʹa-mə’hɑx/.
neamhatruach: “uncompassionate, unmerciful, cruel”; pronounced /nʹav-ɑ’truəx/.
oscall: “armpit”, with the dative singular oscaill. Fén’ oscaill, “under his arm”. Note the nominative/dative distinction is not observed in GCh, where the word appears as ascaill. PUL’s spelling (in the dative) here was asgail, but is amended here in line with the desired pronunciation, which in the nominative would be /oskəl~uskəl/.
peictiúir: “picture”, or pictiúr in GCh. Pronounced /pʹek’tʹu:rʹ/.
Peloponésach: “Peloponnesian”, an inhabitant of the Peloponnese or Peloponnesus, a peninsula in Greece.
pic: “pitch, tar”.
piocaithe: “spick and span”, of appearance; or pioctha in GCh. Often used in the phrase piocaithe beárrtha.
salachar: “dirt, filth”, pronounced /slɑxər/.
sanntaím, sanntú: “to covet, desire”, or santaím, santú in GCh. Pronounced /saun’ti:mʹ, saun’tu:/.
saorchlann: “a free born clan”, with saorchlanna in the plural.
saothar: “labour, exertion”. Saothar orthu, “panting”.
screadach: “screaming”, pronounced /ʃkrʹə’dɑx/.
seanabhrat: “old cloak”.
seanachómhalta: “old mate”; pronounced /ʃanə-xo:lhə/.
síbhialtacht: “civility, politeness”, or sibhialtacht in GCh. Pronounced /ʃi:’vʹiəlhəxt/.
slán: “healthy, sound”, but also “whole, intact”, of a cake or pastry here.
slógadh: “expedition”.
smigín: “chin”. Note: DBÓC had /smʹi’gʹi:nʹ/; LASID shows /smʹe’gʹi:nʹ/.
snua: “complexion”. Pronounced /sno:/.
spreallairín: “silly little fool”.
stuacach: “obstinate, stubborn, ill-tempered, gruff”.
stuidéartha: “steady”, or staidéarach in GCh.
súlach: “sauce, gravy”.
súracaim, súrac: “to suck”, or súraicím, súrac in GCh.
taca: “support, prop, mainstay”.
tairgim, tairiscint “to offer, tender”. Pronounced /tarʹigʹimʹ, taʹrʹiʃkʹintʹ/. Note the preterite, do thairiscin sé.
teanga: “language; tongue”, with the dative singular teangain.
teórannach: “immediate neighbour”.
tiobraid: “fountain”, with tiobraide in the plural here (tiobraidí is also found). Pronounced /tubəridʹ/.
tíoránacht: “tyranny”. Tíoránacht a ghlacadh, “to assume tyrannical powers”. Some of PUL’s works have tíorántacht, which form is found in GCh.
tóchaim, tóch: “to dig, root up”. The phrase an císte poiblí do thóch, “to rifle the public treasury”, may refer to an ancient practice of burying gold treasure.
tragóid: “tragedy”. Na tragóidí nua, “the New Tragedies”, probably a form of dance-drama performed in March/April in honour of the god Dionysus.
tráigh: “strand, beach”, or trá in GCh. The traditionally correct spelling of this word shows the pronunciation, /trɑ:gʹ/.
tuairiní: “smiter”. The original text has a thuairgnígh in the vocative, as if from tuairgnídheach and not from the tuairgnidhe and tuairgneach shown in PSD. That dictionary also shows a variant tuairneach. There is very little evidence for the existence in WM Irish of any of these forms. It may be that a thuairghnígh was intended by PUL to show a final /i:/ and not /i:gʹ/. As the context is a thuairgnígh catha na Gréige, with gh immediately followed by a guttural, there would appear to be no difference in pronunciation, and we can suggest the pronunciation /ə huərʹinʹi: kɑhə nə Grʹe:gʹi/.
tútach: “coarse, vulgar, boorish”.
uille: “elbow”, or uillinn in GCh, where the dative has replaced the nominative. The dative is thus dhá uillinn.
úirlicim, úrlacan: “to vomit” (in particular reference to dry retching), or urlacaim, urlacan in GCh.

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Irish oppose foreign Deliveroo workers

 

Good video by Orla Red here. RTÉ is promoting the idea that Ireland ought to be multiracial, and that Irish jobs are not for Irish people alone. That is an extreme point of view that derives from Cultural Marxism. I support Ghanaian jobs for the Ghanaian people too! The Irish unemployment rate, around 5.7%, is not particularly low. And you will only get better wage rises if the labour market tightens. Someone wants Irish wages to remain static… Ultimately, though, it’s not a question of money or economics: it’s politics and culture. Do you want a country or not?

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How it Happened

1

The tourists who had come to view Westminster Abbey gathered to watch the spectacle as tanks rolled down the street towards the “Supreme Court” building on Parliament Square. There had been no warning of troop movements. The BBC had just gone off air—no one knew why—but otherwise everything was as normal. Soldiers jumped out of the vehicles, armed with machine guns. Something was happening. And there were no media present; just tourists snapping the sight with the cameras on their phones.

A court official ran out, shouting, “you can’t come in; this is illegal!”, and within a few seconds policemen, dozens of them, ran out of the Supreme Court building, blocking the entrance. Major Davies approached them and explained his business, provoking much shouting and arguing the tourists couldn’t quite make out.

Minutes later, the news broke on Sky. The Queen had agreed, at the first meeting of the Privy Council after the election, to suspend habeas corpus and order the arrest of the judges of the “Supreme Court” on grounds of high treason. The BBC had been taken off air, but a similar stand-off was taking place outside Broadcasting House. It was reported that BBC staff were refusing to leave the building, and commanders outside were awaiting political orders on how to proceed.

The news rippled through the crowd, which stood back to allow whatever act or drama was unfolding before their eyes to continue. No one knew if the court officials would stand down, or what action the soldiers would take. Everyone now knew the soldiers had been ordered to arrest all 12 of the “justices of the Supreme Court”, and to gun down anyone who stood in their way. They were to give no quarter.

Major Davies issued his final threat and ran back towards the men. The policemen were standing firm, and so was the court official. What they were doing was treason—revolt against the sovereign. The soldiers took aim, and with a nod from Davies opened fire. The court official collapsed in a bloody mess, murmuring “how dare you?” as he expired. Some of the policemen fell; the others ran; the crowd screamed. But the way had been cleared. Davies tried the door: it was locked. The cowards had locked themselves in.

The glass door would not withstand a direct collision with a tank. The tank glided up the stairs and jolted against the door, which momentarily remained in place, although shattered in pieces as vein-like cracks appeared, before shards of glass fell to the ground. The tank rolled back, and the men ran in the building.

They ran down the corridors of the building, but had difficulty finding the enemy. They searched the building room by room, until at the back of the building on an upper floor, he found them cowering together, a group of court officials and judges dressed in haughty finery.

“You can’t touch us: we are judges”, one of them exclaimed.

“You will come with us, or be gunned down on the spot”, Davies informed them.

“Under what law?”, asked one of the judges.

“By order of Her Majesty the Queen. We will not debate the Common Law with you. You will come, or die now”.

They submitted, all twelve of them. Their fine robes were ripped off—each of them demeaned their apparel, which was meant to signify Royal authority and the majesty of the Law—and they later emerged from the building, cuffed and cowed.

Tom Smith, the new prime minister, had promised a radical restoration of the Law, the law the Queen was required to uphold as a condition of her accession to the throne. He had humiliated the Queen in private consultation as he stressed to her that she was now required to reverse the damage she had allowed to be done over nearly 70 years as monarch. In the end, she had no choice: to refuse to appoint Smith would have required another general election, which she would have lost. Smith had campaigned against our membership of the European Union, the constant ingress of Africans and Asians into our country, the official promotion of multi-culturalism and the anti-racialist hysteria, and the failure of our judges to uphold English Common Law, including the provisions of the Bill of Rights and Magna Carta. The aged Queen could not be sure of winning an election on a platform to maintain bureaucratic rule, in London and Brussels, in defiance of the constitution she had sworn to uphold.

Smith, surrounded by a phalanx of guards, came out into Downing Street, where workmen were busy removing the illegal structures that prevented the public from gaining access to the Queen’s Highway along the street, and gave more details of what was going to happen. There would be no long and drawn-out court case for the traitors of the Supreme Court: the Queen had agreed to appoint a Star Chamber that would handle the case speedily. The sole question to be resolved was whether those judges had declared themselves to be a Supreme body, no longer, as required under the Common Law, a committee of the House of Lords. If the answer to that question was that they had declared themselves to be so, they would each be publicly executed in Parliament Square the following day. Justice must be seen to be done.

Smith gave a deadline of 2pm for the BBC workers to hand over Broadcasting House. The RAF stood ready to bomb the building, he said. He was prepared to do it. A den of traitors, who had used or misused their control of information to pretend that foreign rule, multi-culturalism, bureaucratic hypertrophy and such like were in the public interest, had to be held to account one way or the other. Commissioner Sir Jamil Ahmed of the Metropolitan Police was also being arrested, he said, indicating that he, and all the other police chiefs in the United Kingdom, would be subject to charges of misprision of treason. All of them knew that the entire political class had agreed to support foreign rule and the dispossession of the English people. The law did not permit them not to take action against treason. They were all guilty.

Having delivered a brief explanation of the day’s events, Smith disappeared back inside Number 10. No one knew what would happen next—who else would be arrested or what other buildings would be attacked. For a government to take power—and then take down the Establishment—this was quite unexpected. We knew Smith wanted to withdraw from the EU and was likely to curtail immigration. But no one could have predicted a palace coup on day one of the new administration.

Minutes later, it was reported that troops were surrounding Buckingham Palace. The Queen was inside—the Royal Standard was up—so had they come to defend the Queen or to pose a menace to her? Press commentators argued both sides of this point, but those in the know, with connections in the Constitutional Alliance, which had taken power under Tom Smith, insisted the troops had arrived to prevent the defection of the Queen. She could steal out of the Palace and lead the bureaucratic counterattack. What were the troops’ orders if the Royal Family attempted to leave the Palace? Would the troops open fire on the Monarch herself? No one had clear answers. It felt like the October Revolution in Russia: the CA had come to power peacefully, but was now using force to impose its agenda.

Late morning, the BBC flickered back to life. Broadcasts resumed for a good half an hour, in defiance of the Order in Council, with Charlotte Dimbleby, the latest scion of the media family, known affectionately as “Dimplebottom” among the media elite, for some reason, presenting a frenetic denunciation of the elected government. Everyone must come out against the government, she argued.

“Get to Hyde Park as soon as you can. Hyde Park is the meeting place. If the people are united the government will not dare move against us. Bring whatever you need to defend yourselves”.

The BBC’s rogue broadcast had a link-up with a unit on the ground in the park, and sure enough, people were converging in small groups on the park. The Socialist Workers with their loud hailers were there, but there were more people standing on the sidelines watching what would happen. This was a government prepared to use force, and no one knew how far to push their luck. Every few minutes Charlotte and her studio cut into the live broadcast of Hyde Park with yet more pleas for popular manifestations against the new government.

Then shouting was heard at the rear of the studio, as a group of armed men pushed their way into the studio. They fired on the presenters. Charlotte slumped over the desk, and a clear image was broadcast of blood pouring from her mouth. The cameramen were taken out. And the BBC was off the air again. It was later reported that stormy arguments raged within the BBC on whether to flout the Order in Council, with a radical group gaining control of the airwaves for a time. SAS teams had entered Broadcasting House and BBC facilities in Salford and elsewhere in a bid to prevent the broadcasts, and Charlotte had been gunned down by one of those teams.

Without the BBC, the opposition was in disarray. Sky covered the day’s events, but coverage was restrained: the facts were reported, but no attempt was made to organise popular resistance, lest a military attack on their facilities be mounted too. Finally, the 2pm deadline came and went. Our soldiers were pulled out of the BBC headquarters. A cordon sanitaire was thrown up around the facility, to prevent the workers within from fleeing for their lives. Combat aircraft were heard overhead and within seconds began to strafe the building. The first bomb shattered the windows and was followed by an explosion within. Flames poured out of the windows, with plumes of smoke rising into the heavens, deftly avoided by our airmen. The next bomb and the next found their targets, and soon the building was yellow and black, cloaked in flames, smoke and soot. They came running out of the entrance, but the army was ready for them. All of the workers who sought to leave were machine-gunned down—live on Sky TV. Smith intended the revolution to be televised, as a warning to anyone seeking to resist. The Salford workers gave themselves up, surrendering their facilities, and escaping, however unjustly, with their lives.

By late afternoon all the police chiefs were in custody. More and more reports emerged of more junior judges being arrested. In his public comments, Smith had only mentioned the justices of the Supreme Court, but CA sources told Sky that the entire judiciary would now be held to account. They had enforced European legislation over that passed by our Westminster Parliament, justified by their interpretation of the flagrantly unlawful European Communities Bill 1972, which the Queen had, illegally, purported to sign into law in an act that made King John’s handing over of England to Pope Innocent III a minor act of Royal perjury in comparison. The numbers being arrested continued to climb, but it seemed clear that some police constabularies were refusing to take part in the raids on homes of the members of the judiciary, despite government assurances that police officers with ranks lower than Assistant Commissioner would not be held accountable for political crimes. It would take a while to get full control of the machinery of state, a necessary consequence of a full-fronted attack on the Establishment.

The magistrates were easier to deal with. It seemed these were not going to be executed. The gallows would never be out of operation if all the traitors were hanged, and so some kind of line had to be drawn. It was announced on Sky that magistrates who had colluded in the administration of unlawful imposts such as the Council Tax—in other words, all of the magistrates, as they had all agreed to enforce “statutes” that flouted the Common Law’s prohibition of personal taxation established ever since the Peasants’ Revolt—would be subject to large fines provided they handed themselves in to the nearest police station, and would thereby not forfeit their lives. A similar concession was available for council officials who had levied a range of “fines”, in violation of the Bill of Rights. They handed themselves in in such large numbers there was no room to sit down in police jails.

The government hadn’t yet announced what was to happen to senior civil servants, including those at the Revenue and Customs who had also claimed an extra-judicial right to levy fines. This was partly for fear of a collapse of the entire machinery of Whitehall. Smith was going to deal with the senior civil servants over the next few days. What counted for now was to gain physical control of London. MPs and Lords were another group of potential targets, but once again Smith had delayed an accounting with them until later in the week. Ultimately, everyone who was anyone in the British state was a traitor, but you couldn’t get them all. It was necessary, however, to get enough of them to instil fear in the rest and thus extract compliance from what remained of the state machinery.

The crowd in Hyde Park marched around, yelling slogans, and tried to move into Green Park and thus towards the Palace, but were thwarted by the troops. Penned into the park, with insufficient toilet facilities and growing weary of standing around and arguing with each other, they started to drift home. It looked by the end of the day as if Smith was basically in control. He had removed the organs of propaganda, and seized some of the key members of the Establishment. Most importantly, he had most of the army’s top brass on side, assisted by the consideration that he was a constitutionally elected head of government with the notional support of the Queen and the Privy Council on his side. He was starting to wonder what to do next. He knew he needed to act fast, as the Establishment was unlikely to go down without a fight.

At 10pm, as the new Cabinet met for the first time, news was received, by text message, that an unauthorised gathering of troops had been spotted in Horseguards Parade. This information had not been relayed by the Cabinet Secretary or the other members of the civil service in the Cabinet Office, who feigned ignorance. But thousands of men with automatic weapons and a few tanks between them had now assembled, close enough for an assault on Downing Street. This was mutiny and this was treason—and Smith knew instinctively that Sir Jocelyn Neville, the Cabinet Secretary, was not as ignorant as he made out to be. A brief call to the Palace established that the Queen had not authorised the gathering of troops, or was not admitting to having done so.

Tanks were moved in place to take on the rebels, and the media got ready for a pitched battle on Horseguards. Negotiators moved in defuse the situation. Floodlights lit up the area, and leaflets were dropped by helicopter telling the men gathered there what they were doing was treason. As the negotiations wore on, Crown forces thickened in numbers, to the point where the rebellion was seen to have failed. The commanders of the rebel force handed themselves over, and were executed on the spot, in front of the cameras on Horseguards Parade, without the luxury of a court martial. The rest of the men were arrested, but assured their lives would be spared.

By midnight, the rebellion was over. Sir Jocelyn was taken into “protective custody”—a ruse state officials like himself had often used to justify unlawful imprisonment of political dissidents. The Cabinet Office was emptied of civil servants for the duration of the night, and trusted security personnel brought in to sweep the building for eavesbugging devices and to examine the email boxes of all Cabinet Office personnel. Smith decided that they could not rely on existing Cabinet Office staff, who were likely to be in collusion with rebel elements. All of the senior officials were to be prevented from turning up for work in the morning, with their salaries and pensions cancelled. The failure of the rebellion was a good sign. A window of opportunity had been created to build a free state. It could only be built by intimidating and cashiering the senior personnel of the previous regime.

In the morning, the Star Chamber met. No one knew where the Star Chamber was meant to meet, as the Star Chamber had been abolished after the Civil War, but Smith decided to hold the trial of the judges in Westminster Hall. As no plea of mitigation would be accepted, all that had to be established was whether the justices of the Supreme Court had claimed to be a Supreme Court. The judges of the Star Chamber were handpicked; the verdict was never in doubt and the trial took 15 minutes, all told.

Immediately afterwards, the judges were led in chains into Parliament Square, where the gallows had been erected, waiting for them. And, one by one, they were led up on to the platform, submitted their heads to the noose and a head covering and took their final leap. It could not have been done any other way, or else the judiciary would have frustrated all attempts at reform. The final execution of the junior judges would take weeks, but the machinery was now in motion.

Smith responded to the news of the cashiering of the judges of the Supreme Court with a statement before the cameras in Downing Street:

“I have just received a message from an official of the Star Chamber. It reads, ‘be pleased to inform Her Majesty that the judicial conspiracy against the law has been quelled’”.

In the days that followed, MPs and peers who had supported the bureaucratic regime were arrested too, a development that had been expected, although in some quarters it had been hoped that politicians would be spared in the interests of “toleration” and democracy. Smith knew that such limp-wristed considerations would defeat the revolution he was putting in place. We needed a new Establishment, and the best way to get it was to hang the old one.

2

The Cabinet meeting resolved that the revolutionary phase of government—a nasty, but necessary, business—had to be got over with as quickly as possible. An amnesty for traitors would be announced at the end of the administration’s first month in office; all the executions under way had to be completed by then. Already the majority of the judges had been executed, together with the police chiefs and leading politicians who supported our subjection to a foreign bureaucracy and our dispossession from our homeland. The most senior personnel in the Revenue and Customs had been seized, and were expected to dance a trap door jig along with the other traitors and collaborators, and the top two or three ranks of officials across Whitehall had been dismissed.

Violence was a manly solution: the idea that in a free society violence should never be used against the opponents of society was recognised by the CA as arrant nonsense—this was our only chance at power and we must not be too effete to use it. When under attack, a free people give short shrift to their foes, and thus gain the right to rebuild society without compromising with the former elite. We didn’t have time to work slowly, marching, or crawling at a snail’s pace, through the institutions of society, hoping that we could achieve the social mass to effect a revolution before English people were reduced to a permanent minority in society, never again able to dominate the state.

Such Cabinet discussions were more focused now that the Cabinet Secretary was prevented from attending. Alex Nicholls has been brought in to run the Cabinet Office in Sir Jocelyn’s place, but, in any case, why should bureaucrats be allowed to attend and manipulate policy discussions? Only brief notes were taken, leaving officials none the wiser as to the real content of the discussions. True enough, most of the staff of the Cabinet Office had been replaced, but Smith decided that there was altogether too much recording of policy discussions, which could fall into the wrong hands.

After the meeting, he took a call from President LeShaun Jackson—why these Negroes insisted on such names was beyond him—and Smith jumped as he noticed a staffer, too junior to be thought worth replacing, picking up the phone on the opposite side of the room.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”, he thundered.

“I’m taking notes on the phone call. It’s my job”.

“No. Get this right. Being prime minister is my job. Get off the line: I want a private conversation with President Jackson. Haven’t you got filing to do?”

“LeShaun, sorry for the interruption! Your southern accent reminds me of a land of cotton…”

“Well, cotton on to this, Tom. Ambassador Houston has given us the lowdown on what you’re up to. We take a very dim view of the extraordinary events in the United Kingdom. If you value our transatlantic alliance at all, I suggest you change course”.

“LeShaun, we are always open to suggestions, but this is our country, and we will run it as we see fit. Don’t forget that English Common Law is the basis of the US Constitution too. Maybe if you had impeached your judges for overstepping their authority, the freedom and liberty the United States was founded to preserve would still flourish”.

“Don’t give me that constitution crap. There’d still be segregation in the South if the judges hadn’t used their authority to nudge society in a progressive direction…”

“And no doubt your violent crime figures would be much lower too! A free society cannot last long where society is divided along cultural lines—this was clear to the US Founding Fathers too, and was explained at length by the father of English liberty, John Stuart Mill…”

“You mean, segregation should have continued?” He was working himself up into a conniption of hysterical outrage.

“No. I mean we were foolish to attempt to replicate the social problems of America. You can forget your attempts to foist multi-culturalism on the UK from now on, LeShaun. That’s over. Done with. The people who are already here in our country will have to fit in with us. We cannot allow our domestic policy to be subject to international sniping—we will decide it for ourselves. The best I can do for you is to reaffirm that the UK will not oppose key interests of the United States. Your base in Fylingdales is secure, barring a complete rupture between the governments”.

“If that is your response, we will have to withdraw our ambassador for discussions. If reports are true that you plan to leave the European Union and end immigration, then you will find Uncle Sam a hostile foe. You need to reconsider immediately, or face sanctions.”

“LeShaun, LeShaun, I’m starting to realise that the rise of China and Russia has its good points. You cannot throw your weight about like you did in the Cold War. We will find other allies, but basically, other than international trade, we don’t seek anything else from any other country. We are not interested in telling you how to govern America, and don’t have a problem with China or Russia…”

“What about our joint mission in Burma? What is the purpose of our occupation of that country if you support the Chinese?”

“LeShaun, I did not say we supported the Chinese, but as far as Burma is concerned, you’re on your own there. Our troops are being withdrawn—we decided this in Cabinet today. I suggest you withdraw from Burma too, concentrate on the US and stop trying to manipulate other countries. As for Ambassador Houston, by all means withdraw him. We were going to declare him persona non grata anyway, for his absurd pronouncements on UK policy on immigration. Don’t bother appointing a replacement if the new ambassador is not prepared to behave in line with diplomatic norms. We can do without the ambassadorial appointments and state visits”.

The following day, the news channels were all over the announcement that Britain was being expelled from NATO. We were being isolated. The European Union announced that we had become “the new Belarus”, but had not yet decided whether to let us leave or to expel us. Smith argued to his colleagues that if the most unpleasant stage of the seizure of power was completed by the end of the month, all this talk of sanctions would die down. Belarus will suit us just fine, as long as we can still trade with the world.

It wasn’t clear what Jackson would do, or the EU, but the government turned to domestic matters. Days after the seizure of power, the lower strata of the state apparatus were, by and large, implementing the orders handed down to them. In Whitehall itself, the middle-ranking officials had been promoted, without pay rises, and were managing to keep things ticking over. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office; the Department for Education; the Department for Business, Innovation and Skills; the Department for Communities and Local Government; the Department for Culture, Media and Sport; the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs; the Department for International Development; and the Department of Energy and Climate Change had all been closed down, and those civil servants who retained their jobs were now panicking lest a similar fate meet them too.

It had been decided that the few quangos that remained were to be brought properly into government as departmental bodies—in order that they be accountable to Parliament through ministers’ questions—with the principle being that total spending on quangos had to be cut by 90% within a fortnight. The Commission for Equalities had been shut down the day before, along with the entire apparatus of employment tribunals and their respective appeal bodies. A rather lame fax from the Potato Marketing Board lay on Smith’s desk, trying to argue that fish and chips were so central to our culture that some regulation of potatoes remained necessary.

Spending programmes were being abandoned, but the Palace was proving obstructive on the cancellation of public-sector pensions. A large reduction in personal taxation could not feasibly be pushed through Parliament in the following week’s budget unless key spending items, including the fraudulent public-sector pension schemes, were identified for elimination. Smith jotted down a few points on his handheld computer to make to the Queen the following day in advance of the meeting of the Privy Council. He intended to secure the passage of an Order in Council denying access to benefits to any of the redundant state officials, pending proper legislation to the same effect in Parliament.

Suddenly, a special adviser ran into the room, with a remote control in his hand, and switched on the television screen against the wall. Smith felt vaguely irritated at such intrusions—was he not the prime minister? couldn’t his minions even knock before entering?—but he quickly realised the significance of the programme. The cameras were focused on James Arbuthnot, former director of the Revenue and Customs, blubbering as was dragged into view in Parliament Square. This was going to be great television! On the one hand, there was the danger of being seen to be cruel to political opponents, but on the other hand it was an advantage too: these people had to be morally destroyed as well as executed. Arbuthnot was wailing something like, “but we were told we could fine people—the judges had agreed it! It was all in the emails from the Supreme Court”. The more he yelled, the more he proved his guilt. As if the judges had any right to decide such a thing! Smith leant back and savoured the moment he had always longed for—justice was being done! The wretch didn’t even have the dignity to compose himself for the scaffolds! Moments later, he was suspended from a rope, quivered a while as if holding on to every precious moment of life, and then his body went limp.

Suddenly, Smith’s attention was distracted by the appearance of a red box in his lap, containing final details of the budget for his approval. Yes, everything had to be done quickly before the old elite could organise, and that required cutting off their funding and their perks. Council tax—gone! Plans for a levy on freeholders—freeriders on the back of social activity, which boosted their land values—were still somewhat rudimentary, but the unlawful tax on all residents, whether landowners or not, had to go immediately, with all arrears cancelled. The TV licence, or hypothecated BBC tax, hadn’t been collected since the strafing of Broadcasting House, but it was being officially retired too. Maybe the Queen would like to come on Sky and explain why she thought every one of her subjects should be forced to subscribe to seditious propaganda?

Some of the larger taxes would have to be withdrawn in stages, but Smith had decided to get rid of National Insurance in one fell swoop. The Cabinet discussion had been intense. Some argued that people should be forced to pay a similar amount of money into mandatory pension funds, but the long-term locking up of savings was not ideal either, and it was decided that people should spend their money as they wished—but under the clear warning that the pensions jamboree was coming to an end. If you didn’t save, you could ask your children to support you or you could turn to charity: those would be your choices. The Cabinet had finally decided to end universal benefits of all types, including pensions: a meagre welfare payment would be available to indigent retired people, but it would be limited to people of British ancestry, would not be uprated ever again in line with inflation, and would eventually be replaced by a much smaller block grant to the parishes of the Established Church to hand out in the form of charitable donations to parishioners they knew to be deserving. The elimination of employers’ NI contributions and the immediate end of “employment rights” would encourage job creation. Around one-quarter of the state would have to be closed down to finance the abolition of NI.

Capital gains tax and inheritance tax were also being abolished. As most property was held in the form of land, the planned land value assessment would shift some of the burden of revenue-raising on to landowners to replace inheritance tax and council tax, but this could not be done in a week. In any case, legacies held as cash or investments, and not in the form of landed property, would never be taxed again. Finally, there was the absurd income tax. A large reduction was pencilled in for the following year, when healthcare and education would be privatised, but the new systems had to be put in place, and it had been decided that the temporary retention of an income tax as an emergency measure could be reconciled with the Common Law, provided that large reductions were being implemented every year, with the whole charade eliminated well within the decade. The bill also made it a criminal offence for any UK revenue-raising agency to share information with other jurisdictions on taxes levied on economic activity wholly engaged in in Britain. The US was unlikely to approve, but their extraterritorial taxation of US citizens abroad had become an affront that could not longer be tolerated.

Smith glanced at the text of bills withdrawing from the EU and preventing all immigration, with small exceptions for up to 1,000 genuinely highly skilled workers. A larger exception allowed free immigration of people of wholly British ancestry, with Australians, Rhodesians, Canadians and others expected to benefit. This pool of talent was wide enough, he thought, without fishing for labour in hostile lands. No announcement had yet been made about the re-registration of the entire citizenry whereby only people of English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish ancestry would be accepted for the new-style passports. This was absolutely essential to prevent the political process from being manipulated by outsiders and as part of the radical plan to reserve stripped down public-sector employment and welfare benefits for native Britons alone. So many traitors on the opposition benches in both Houses of Parliament had been arrested, there was little likelihood that these bills would attract much opposition. The Queen—an insubstantial figure in her late 90s—was likely to give in on all of this, but Smith was angered by the coterie of effete courtiers who claimed to represent the Queen’s wishes. Last week’s meeting with the Queen had been attended by three other people. He decided that he must deal with the Queen alone the following day.

He arrived at the Palace in the morning, flanked by bodyguards provided by the Russian embassy. He didn’t trust MI5, and his secret plans to forge an alliance with Moscow to replace the axis with a Latino/black America had gone down well with President Ivanov. From now on, he had bodyguards he could trust, and a small praetorian guard of handsome Slavic soldiers in civvies was being installed around Downing Street. He was driven in through the front gates of the Palace and then around the back, and walked up the Palace stairs admiring the portraits of the kings—if only Elizabeth had defended the constitution like George III would have done, he thought. Alas, it was all unpicked decades ago, and it would be difficult to pin the responsibility on an ageing, albeit sprightly, woman.

He was shown in, and made a half-hearted bow to a woman he believed had colluded in our national dispossession. They were there, next to her—Dame Janet Thirles and Sir Nicholas Tomlinson—the guardians of the monarch, so to speak.

“Your Majesty, I wish to hold our meeting in private”.

“Why, Mr Smith, Janet and Nick are my constitutional advisers. They will be present, particularly as you are planning thorough-going constitutional change”.

“Ma’am, they did not take the Coronation Oath with you. As member and governor of the Established Church, you cannot contract out your duty to keep your oath. If you fail to uphold the Common Law, you will be the one guilty of perjury—not them!”

“Mr Smith, this is an impertinence! I am unaccustomed to being spoken to in this way…”

“That may be so, Ma’am, but after seventy years on the throne, you are the constitutional expert, and you need no advisers. My bodyguards will attend at a distance, and your advisers may follow at a similar remove. I wish to speak with you, alone”.

They walked down the stairs and into the kitchens and picked up the corgis, and strolled out into the gardens. On reflection, it was a good idea to have some attendants on hand, far enough not to influence the conversation, just in case the ageing Queen had a fall.

“I want you remember, Mr Smith, that I am your Sovereign, and I will consider the merits of the Royal Assent in the case of each piece of legislation you advance”.

“Well, I am more than respectful of the symbolic role of the monarchy, Ma’am, as it represents the continuity of our nation from the days it was first forged by the House of Wessex. But Dieu et mon droit indicates that royal power flows from the religious ceremony of the Coronation, and the Oath that was taken then …”

“ I am aware of your rude remarks in the press claiming that I have not kept the Oath. As I explained to you last time we met, and I do not wish to go over this point every time we meet, I am obliged to follow my prime ministers’ advice, and my decisions can only be seen in that light”.

“In that case, Ma’am, you will support my legislative programme, just the same as you supported that of my predecessors. But the difference is that my programme aims to restore the constitution that has been overturned since 1952. The advice you received from Wilson, Heath, Blair, Cameron and the others was not lawful: it amounted to requiring you to violate your Oath.”

“So my mother claimed—”

“Your Majesty, the interests of the monarchy, included the Crown Estate and the Duchies of Lancaster and Cornwall will not be touched…”

“I was going to get to that—”

Smith thought as much. It came down to pounds, shillings and pence with the Windsor firm.

“… but embezzlement by public-sector officials has to stop, and this will be the main item on the agenda of the Privy Council today”.

“I see. The Royal estate is safe, but the civil servants are to thrown to the wolves? And this fuss about immigration—how can you expect me to give my assent to that?”

“Well, this is our country, Ma’am, and your governments should never have encouraged all and sundry to flock to our shores. The effects in terms of crime have been truly dreadful—”

“But there will be riots if you end the preferences and re-establish the primacy of English culture…”

“… yes, possibly so, but that is what the army is for: to defeat the enemies of our nation. Nothing will be done without warning, but it is imperative that it be understood by all that our domestic policy is not subject to a veto by immigrants or by their descendants. It is no different in their countries. As you know, Ma’am, Major Davies is a long-standing member of the CA, and thousands of soldiers have already pledged to defend the country against internal threats, if necessary. The alternative would be civil war, I can assure you”.

“You browbeat me into putting into effect a policy I would not voluntarily support. Is it truly necessary to maintain a constant guard around the Palace?”

“Your Majesty, let me put it this way. I hope there is no civil war, but we will not lose through being unprepared. We expect you to favour our legislative programme, as all the kings and queens before you would have done”.

Later in the day, it was announced that the sacked civil servants were on their own: there would be no welfare for them, and their only option was to quickly seek alternative employment. Smith assumed that even quite senior people would not all find positions immediately, and that they would find themselves too busy securing a livelihood to conspire effectively against Her Majesty’s government.

3

It was the first State Opening of Parliament guarded by Russian soldiers. They had to let the Queen out of the Palace. She was given a two-paragraph speech to read in view of her age, and there was no point in trying to humiliate her more than necessary by including too much verbiage implying personal support for the revolution in progress. Smith turned up in full white-tie dress, as befitted a State occasion, and let it be known the CA ministers were not to slum it in business suits. He looked round at the so-called lords, and mused on how most of them would soon be gone. Who on earth were they? Politicians and hangers-on, in the main—not at all the descendants of the companions of the Conqueror. From now on, there would be no more life peers, and hereditary peerages would only be recommended to statesmen with the money and class to join the aristocracy. If the statesman had not built the wealth to buy or erect his own stately home, then he would not be enrolled in the Upper House.

The following day, during the debate on the Queen’s Speech, the government’s plans were unveiled to a largely supportive Commons. The Conservative, Labour and Liberal Democrat parties had been proscribed as illegal organisations, and so, apart from Ulster Unionists and a handful of others, there was no meaningful opposition. The CA backbenchers cheered as Smith outlined plans for an immediate restoration of the Common Law. There would be no fines handed down by councils or the Revenue and Customs: councils would have to make do on their block grants until alternative arrangements were put in place—they could save money by sacking entire finance departments that hitherto busied themselves in the criminal office of demanding money with menaces—and, while income tax would be withdrawn over several years, non-PAYE payers were to being made exempt overnight. This was in order to foster self-employment and in recognition of the fact that only the courts could hand down fines, and in the absence of a PAYE system for the self-employed it was not going to be possible to enforce collections. Each tax that was being abolished was greeted with loud approval.

All those departments and quangos were being closed down, but the likely impact on frontline services was likely to be zero, as most of them didn’t do anything. Smith acknowledged that local government faced cuts, but the legislation would compel councils to require care home residents to sell their properties or seek family assistance if necessary. There was no extra money available, and so the largest element of local expenditure would have to bear the brunt of a savage cut. Family responsibility must replace state programmes. Daughters-in-law must, once again, accustom themselves to caring for their husbands’ ageing mothers—this had to happen as a matter of course, as it had over countless centuries.

The exit from the EU would save billions, and food was going to be cheaper now crazy European agricultural and fisheries policies had been deleted. Of course, our fishing grounds would be defended by the Royal Navy—Spanish boats would be blown out of the water. This nation of lovers of fish and chips was going to see its coastal waters teem with cod once again!

Jim Robinson, member for Antrim North, interrupted the prime minister. Would soldiers’ pay and perks be cut? How would this affect Northern Ireland? Smith assured him that the only group of public-sector workers who would see their perks protected were soldiers—soldiers in uniform, mind you, and not the scrounging officials of the Ministry of Defence. For once thing, they might be called upon to defend the government, and plans to scrap the Good Friday Agreement in Northern Ireland also underlined the important of generosity to servicemen.

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Lúcián 28

XXVIII. Tímón nú an Fear a Thug Fuath do Dhaoine

Tím. Ó, a Iúpiteir; a Charadaigh; agus a Oinigh; agus a Chúmpánaigh; agus a Thínteánaigh; a Splanncaire; agus a Mhionnacheap; agus a scuabaire na scamall; a fhothramálaí mhóir; agus pé ainm eile is maith leis na filíbh buile seo do ghlaoch ort; go mór mór nuair a bhíonn ciscéim bacaí sa dán acu; (mar tá oiread san ainmneacha ortsa go bhféadann ainm éigin leat an lúb ar lár do thógaint dóibh agus an bheárna do dhúnadh sa tómhas) ca bhfuil an splannc úd an fhothraim mhóir anois uait? Agus an bhúirtheach thóirthní? Agus do chaor uathásach a bhíodh id láimh agat ar dearglasadh? Ní dheallraíonn an scéal anois go bhfuil iontu súd go léir ach fiannaíocht agus gal suip filíochta ar fad, ach amháin a bhfuil d’fhothram in sna hainmneachaibh atá orthu. Agus an t-arm oirirc, faidbhéimneach, luathghníomhach san agat, ní fheadar cad ’tá imithe air. Tá sé in éag ar fad agat. Tá sé fuar, gan oiread agus spré feirge tar éis fanúint ann in aghaidh drochdhaoine. Duine den mhuíntir a bheadh ag cuímhneamh ar leabhar éithigh a thabhairt, is mó an t-eagla ’ bheadh aige roimis an mbuaiceas a múchadh inné ná mar a bheadh air roime do chaor uilechómhachtach. An chuma ’na gcaitheann tú spalla beag tine leó ní chuireann an teas ná an deatach uaidh aon eagla orthu. Ní mheasaid siad go ndéanfar de dhíobháil dóibh ach go mb’fhéidir go smearfadh an sú iad. Uime sin níorbh iúnadh an Salmónéus úd do dhéanamh na tóirthní id choinnibh. Níorbh aon dóithín é. Bhí sé teasaí uaibhreach, agus Iúpiter chómh leamhfhuar. Cad ’na thaobh ná déanfadh agus tusa id chodla fé mar a bheadh suan an mhandráic ort? Ní airíonn tú lucht na mionn éithigh. Ní fheiceann tú lucht na héagóra. Tu leathchaoch, gearr-radharcach, i dtaobh drochghníomhartha, agus tu spaidchluasach, ar nós daoine aosta. An fhaid a bhís óg, cróga, dásachtach i t’fheirg, dheintá a lán nithe in aghaidh lucht éagóra agus éigin. Ní thugthá choíche aon tsos cómhraic dóibh. Bhíodh do chaortha ag imeacht coitianta, agus do thóirthneach ag búirthigh, agus do sciath dá suathadh agat, agus do splanncracha dá stealladh uait ’na gceathannaibh agat. Ba mhar a chéile an luascadh talmhan a dheintá agus luascadh créithir. Bhíodh do shneachta ’na chruachaibh. Bhíodh do chloich-shneachta ’na clochaibh móra. Agus ionas go labharfainn leat go mórbhriathrach, bhíodh t’fhearthainn ’na taoisceannaibh diana, gach braon chómh mór uisce le habhainn. B’in é fé ndeár an léirscrios a deineadh in aon neómat amháin in aimsir Dheucalion, nuair a bádh gach aon rud le huisce agus gurbh ar éigin a chuaigh aon bháidín beag amháin saor go Lucórés, lenar sábháladh síol beag daonna, ónar shíolraigh olc ba mhó. Tá a rian air; tá tuarastal do spaidiúlachta agat dá fháil uathu. Ní dheineann éinne aon íbirt chút anois, ná ní chuireann éinne coróinn ort, mara ndéanfadh duine éigin é i ndiaidh na nOluimpiach. Ní dheineann sé sin féin é ach nách maith leis an seananós do bhriseadh. Ní fada go mbeidh t’onóir go léir bainte dhíot acu, a phlúr na ndéithe! Agus gan ionat ach Cronos acu! Ní bhacaim trácht ar a mhiniceacht a robáladar do theampall ort. Dhein cuid acu thu féin do láimhseáil in Oluimpia, agus níor dheinis-se, a ghiolla na tóirthní móire!, oiread agus na gadhair do chur leó, nú glaoch ar na cómharsain i dtreó go mbéarfí orthu sara bhféadfaidís imeacht. Agus tusa, an t-uasal a mhairbh na fathaigh agus a bhuaigh ar na Tíotánaibh, d’fhanais ansúd id shuí ar do shuaimhneas an fhaid a bhíodar ag bearradh na gruaige dhíot, agus caor tóirthní ’na raibh deich gcúbait ar faid ann id láimh dheis agat! Innis dom, a rí na ndéithe, cathain a stadfair den neamhshuím seo agat i ndrochbheartaibh den tsórd san? Nú cathain a dhéanfair díoltas ar a leithéid d’éagóir? An mó Phaeton nú an mó Deucalion is leór dá leithéid d’easúmhlaíocht ó dhaoine? Gan trácht ar nithibh coiteanna, féach mo scéal féin, féach ar árdaíos d’Atéineachaibh, ag déanamh daoine saibhre de dhaoinibh a bhí dealbh go maith, ag cabhrú le daoine a bhí ’na ghátar, ag scaipeadh mo choda go fórleathan ar mo cháirdibh, agus anois nuair atá an obair sin tar éis duine bocht a dhéanamh díom ná haithníd siad in aon chor me. Níl aon mheas acu anois orm bíodh go raibh árdmheas roimis seo acu orm agus urraim acu dhom agus iad ag faire chun bheith úmhal dom. Má bhuaileann duine acu umam ar an mbóthar gabhann sé thorm gan me d’aithint mar a gheóbhadh sé thar an lic a bheadh ar lár le himeacht aimsire, ar uaigh duine éigin a fuair bás i bhfad ó shin. Nuair a chíd tuilleadh acu uathu ag teacht me iompaíd siad bóthar eile le gráin orm agus le doicheall rómham, in inead me ’ bheith im dhea-theangmhálaí rafar dóibh mar a bhínn tráth. I gcás go bhfuil an donas tar éis me ’ chomáint amach san áit imigéiniúil seo agus casóg leathair umam agus me ag obair, ag saothrú an tailimh ar cheithre oboloisíbh sa ló, agus me ag déanamh mo mhachnaimh san uaigneas os cionn mo ghrafáin. Tá an méid seo sóláis agam, áfach. Ní bheidh mé ag féachaint a thuilleadh ar a lán daoine go bhfuil orthu ádh nách fiú iad. Crá rómhór é sin. Ach croith dhíot fé dheireadh thiar thall, a mhic Chronois agus Réa, an tromchodladh fada suairc seo atá ort (is sia é ná codladh Epimeinídéis), agus séid ar lasadh do chaor tóirthní, nú sáigh isteach in Aetna é go lasaidh sé ’na bhladhm mhór, agus taispeáin dúinn iarracht den fhearg a bhíodh i Iúpiter óg; mara rud é gur fíor a ndeirid Crétánaigh, .i. go bhfuilir marbh curtha.

Zeús. Féach airiú, a Herméis, cé hé sin atá ag screadaigh a hAttica, ag bun cnuic Huméttois? An t-anacróir salach san go bhfuil an seithe mar chasóig uime? Is dó’ liom gur ag rómhar atá sé. Tá sé ar a chromadh. Fear dána cainnteach is ea é. Ní foláir nú is philosopher éigin é nú ní labharfadh sé an chainnt mhaslaitheach san ’nár gcoinnibhne.

Herm. Cad é sin agat á rá, a athair? Ná haithníonn tú Tímón mac Ecratídéis, an Colutéach? Sin é an té úd a fhriotháladh sinn go minic le móríbirtíbh; an té úd a saibhríodh go hobann agus a dheineadh na híbirtí céad chúinn agus go ndeinimís na Diásacha do chomóradh chómh hálainn in’ fhochair.

Zeús. Ochón! Cad é mar athrú! An duin’ uasal san a bhí chómh saibhir! Agus ’na mbíodh oiread san daoine muínteartha tímpall air! Cad d’imigh air in aon chor? Cad a dhein anacróir bocht mífhoirtiúnach mar sin de, ag rómhar ar a phá mar atá sé agus an grafán trom san á chasadh aige?

Herm. Déarfadh duine gur dea-mhéinn a chreach é, agus dea-chómharsanacht, agus atrua don mhuíntir a bhíodh i ngátar. Ach le fírinne is amadántacht a chreach é, agus míchiall, agus drochbhreithiúntas i dtaobh na gcarad a thoghadh sé. Níor thug sé fé ndeara gur do mhachtíríbh agus d’fhiachaibh dúbha a bhí caradas aige dá thabhairt. Na héin chraosacha ag ithe na n-ae aige agus ná leogfadh an t-aimhleas do a thuiscint nách caradas ná grá ná ionúine a bhí dhá gcimeád in’ fhochair ach corp dúil sa digh a thugadh sé dhóibh. Do lomadar a chnámha agus do chreimeadar iad mórthímpall, agus má bhí smior iontu do shúdar astu é glan, agus ansan d’imíodar uaidh agus d’fhágadar ’na ndiaidh é feóchta tirim, geárrtha ó phréimh, agus ní aithneóidís é ná ní fhéachfaidís air as san amach (ní nách iúnadh) chun cabhair ná cúnamh a thabhairt do, tar éis ar dhein sé dhóibh. Sin é fé ndeara dho bheith ag rómhar, agus casóg leathair air, mar a chíonn tú. Do rith sé as an gcathair mar bhí náire air. Tá sé ansúd ag saothrú an tailimh ar a phá, agus an mí-ádh tar éis é ’ chomáint as a mheabhair; mar go bhfeiceann sé na daoine ’nar thug sé an saibhreas dóibh ag bualadh thairis chómh coímhtheach san gur dhó’ le duine orthu nách eól dóibh an Tímón is ainm do in aon chor.

Zeús. Go deimhin féin ní neamhshuím is cóir a chur sa bhfear san. Ní ceart gan féachaint chuige. Ní hiúnadh a mhórmhí-ádh ’ bheith tar éis a chomáint as a mheabhair. B’olc an mhaise dhúinne dá ndeinimís mar a dheineadar na plámásaithe fíll úd, dá mba ná cuímhneóimís ar an bhfear a loisc ar ár n-altóraibh oiread ceathrúna méithe mart agus gabhar. An balaith saibhir a bhí uathu tá sé im shróin fós. Ach níor fhéachas i dtreó Attica le fada dh’aimsir anois. Ní raibh uain agam air. Bhíos tógtha suas ar fad ag lucht mionn éithigh agus ag lucht foghla agus ag lucht éigin, bhí a leithéid sin de ghleó acu á dhéanamh. Dá éaghmais sin bhí eagla na maslaitheóirí orm. Aicme líonmhar is ea iad agus is deocair faire ’ dhéanamh orthu. Ní leogaid siad dom néal do chodladh. Agus an aicme seo an aighnis, na filosofigh seo a bhíonn ag coímheascar mar gheall ar fhoclaibh, tá oiread san glóir acu ní féidir dom guí do chlos ó éinne mar gheall orthu. Táim bodhar acu. Caithim suí anso agus mo chluasa ’ chimeád stupaithe nú do bhainfidís m’éisteacht díom ag callaireacht in éineacht, in árd a gcínn ’s a ngutha, i dtaobh brí éigin, nú neamhchorp nú neamhnithe eile den tsórd san. B’in é cúis dúinn dearúd a dhéanamh den duine seo nách cóir in aon chor a dhearúd. Ach imigh láithreach, a Herméis, ag triall air, agus beir leat Ploutos, agus beireadh Ploutos Tesauros leis agus fanaidís araon i bhfochair Thímóin agus ná tagaidís uaidh go fuiriste pé dícheall a dhéanfaidh sé feasta ar iad do chomáint as a thigh arís le neart dea-ghníomh. Ní mór dhom féin breithniú ar ball ar lucht an phlámáis agus an easpa baochais, féachaint cad é an pionós is ceart a chur orthu mar gheall ar a bhfuil déanta acu ar Thímón. Curfar orthu an pionós chómh luath agus ’ bheidh an caor tóirthní seo deisithe agam. Do briseadh agus do maolaíodh an dá bheann is mó air an uair úd, le déanaí, a chaitheas é leis an sophist úd Anacsagoras. Bhí sé dhá áiteamh ar a dheisceabalaibh ná raibh ár leithéidíne in aon chor ann ’nár ndéithibh. Chuireas iomad fuinnimh leis an urchar. Níor bhuaileas é mar do thóg Periclés a lámh os a chionn. Ach do ghluais an caor tóirthní isteach sa teampall úd, an tAnaceion. Do loisceadh an teampall agus is beag ná gur deineadh smidiríní den chaor i gcoinnibh na carraige. Agus anois beidh pionós ana-chruaidh ar lucht an phlámáis agus an neambaochais nuair a chífid siad Tímón in’ fhear ana-shaibhir arís.

Herm. ’Sea! Nách mairg ná déanfadh búirtheach, agus fothram, agus dánaíocht! Peocu feárr cás do phlé é nú feárr guí a dhéanamh! Féach a thapúlacht a bheidh Tímón in’ fhear shaibhir anois, ó bheith in’ anacróir bhocht dhealbh, toisc gur bhéic sé chómh hárd agus gur labhair sé chómh dána. Chuir sé ’ fhéachaint ar Zeús éisteacht lena ghuí. Dá bhfanadh sé ciúin, ag rómhar ar a chromadh, is ag rómhar a dh’fhanfadh sé, agus ní curfí suím ann.

Plout. Ní raghadsa ag triall air siúd, a Iúpiteir!

Zeús. Cad ’na thaobh, a Phloutois, a uasail, agus mise dhá rá leat dul?

Plout. Mar thug sé tarcaisne dhom, dar fia. Do tharraig sé amach me agus gheárr sé im chodaibh beaga me, bíodh gur chara dá athair me. Is beag ná gur dhíbir sé amach as a thigh me le píce. Chaith sé uaidh me fé mar a chaithfeadh duine sméaróid tine as a láimh. An amhlaidh a raghad ag triall air arís chun me ’ thabhairt do lucht plámáis agus do lucht itheacháin agus do leannánaibh? Cuir me, a Iúpiteir, ag triall ar an muíntir a thuigfidh cad is fiú me, ag triall ar an muíntir a ghlacfaidh le grá me, go mbeidh urraim acu dhom agus dúil acu ionam. Ach na brealláin seo a dheineann cómhluadar leis an ndealús, agus gur feárr leó an dealús ná mise, agus go dtugann an dealús casóga leathair agus grafáin dóibh, bíodh na cheithre hoboloisí acu anois agus deinidís leó, tar éis na mílte úd a chaitheadar uathu i mbronntaisíbh.

Zeús. Ní dhéanfaidh Tímón aon rud den tsaghas san leatsa a thuilleadh. Tá ciall cheannaigh múinte ag an ngrafán do, .i. gur fearra dho thusa ná an dealús; mara rud é ná cuireann teinneas ’na chaoldrom aon chlóic air. Ach dar liomsa ní rófhuiriste tu ’ shásamh. Taoi ag gearán anois ar Thímón toisc gur oscail sé a dhóirse dhuit agus gur thug sé cead do chos duit; nár chimeád sé istigh thu agus ná raibh sé ag faire go héadmhar ort. Uair eile bhí a mhalairt sin de ghearán agat ar na daoine saibhre .i. go gcimeádaidís fé ghlasaibh agus fé dhaingeanaibh tu dúnta suas agus fé shliochtaibh séalaí, i dtreó ná bíodh ar do chumas oiread agus féachaint amach sa tsolas. Dheinis do ghearán liomsa mar gheall ar na nithibh sin agus dúraís go rabhais ’od mhúchadh leis an ndoircheacht mór. Ar an abhar san d’fhéachais go bán im shúilibh féin, agus lán de bhuairt, agus bhí do mhéireanna crapaithe, mar gheall ar an síorchómhaireamh. Agus bhís á rá go n-éalófá uathu ar fad dá bhfaighfá an chaoi. Dar leat ba chruaidh an cás é, tu ’od chimeád go seasc, ar nós Danáé, istigh i seómra práis nú iarainn, agus gan ag friothálamh bídh ort ach an bheirt ghéar drochaigeanta úd, .i. Iúncamas agus Cómhaireamh. Dúraís go raibh ní áiféiseach acu dhá dhéanamh, grá thar na beartaibh acu dhuit agus ná leómhfaidís aon úsáid a dhéanamh díot, bíodh ná raibh bac orthu ann, ná a ngrá do shásamh ar a suaimhneas, bíodh go rabhais féna smacht. Iad ansúd san oíche gan néal do chodladh ach iad ag tabhairt aire dhuit, ná dúnfaidís súil ach iad ag faire go súiloscailte ar an séala agus ar an sabh, agus nár bheag leó de shochar dóibh féin asat a bheith ar a gcumas gan aon phioc ded shochar do leogaint le héinne eile; ar nós an mhadra sa mhainséar ná féadfadh an coirce ’ dh’ithe agus ná leogfadh don chapall é ’ dh’ithe. Bíonn tú ag gáirí úmpu mar gheall ar bheith ’od chimeád chómh haireach gan úsáid a dhéanamh díot, agus rud is fíoriúntach, éad orthu chúthu féin mar gheall ort; agus gan ’ fhios acu an bithiúnach seirbhísigh, nú reachtaire, nú múinteóra, ’ bheith thíos, i ganfhios, i gcúil an fhíona agus é caoch ar meisce, an fhaid a bhíonn an máistir mírafar, aimhleasta, ag faire ar thoradh an iúncamais, gan de sholas aige ach an lóchrann dúr go bhfuil an buaiceas ar bheagán íle ann. Conas nách éagóir duitse an obair sin do lochtú roimis seo agus Tímón do lochtú anois mar gheall ar a mhalairt sin ar fad d’obair?

Plout. Dá mb’áil leatsa fírinne an scéil do bhreithniú ó gach taobh do chífá ná fuil an éagóir agam in aon taobh acu. An rabairne sin a dheineadh Tímón ní dea-mhéinn é, im thaobhsa dhe, ach neamhshuím. Agus an mhuíntir úd a chimeádadh dúnta istigh sa doircheacht me ’om chur i méid thar na beartaibh; ná déanfaidís féin úsáid díom agus ná tabharfaidís amach sa tsolas me le heagla go bhfeicfeadh éinne me; dar liom is daoine buile iad san, agus deinid siad éagóir tharcaisneach ormsa, ’om chimeád ag lobhadh agus ag dreó fé ghlasaibh agus gan aon rud déanta as an slí agam; agus gur chóir go mbeadh ’ fhios acu nách rófhada go gcaithfid siad imeacht agus me ’ fhágáilt ag duine éigin eile de lucht an tséin. Dá bhrí sin ní mholaim iad san. Ní lú ná a mholaim lucht rabairne. Molaim an mhuíntir a chuireann, mar is ceart, teóra leis an ngnó; an mhuíntir ná bíonn rórabairneach ná róchruagálach im thaobh. Ach is é rud a chuireann ar deargbhuile me ná an chuma ’na mbíonn aicme daoine ag gabháil de chosaibh ionam, ’om ithe agus ’om ídiú, agus aicme eile ag cur ceangail na gcúig gcaol orm mar a curfí ar chuirpeach fánaí ’na mbeadh rian an iarainn dheirg air.

Zeús. Agus cad is gá dhuit bheith i bhfeirg leis an dá aicme sin? Nách eól duit go dtagann togha pionóis orthu araon? Sin aicme acu, ar nós Tantalois, ag méanfaíoch ar an ór, gan ithe ná ól acu, ach béil thiorma; agus an bia dá sciobadh amach as a gcúlchraos ón aicme eile, ag na hArpaíbh, ar nós Phinéuis. Ach imigh ort anois agus gheóbhair ag Tímón ciall mhór ná raibh aige.

Plout. Agus an stadfaidh sé choíche de bheith ’om tharrac amach chómh dásachtach, mar a scaoilfí amach me a árthach a bheadh pollta, go dtí go mbead imithe ar fad? Ba dhó’ le duine air gurb amhlaidh ba mhian leis me ’ leogaint amach sara dtiocfadh an iomad díom isteach, le heagla go múchfainn é. Tá an tslí amach ana-mhór aige. Measaim gurb é rud a bheidh agam á dhéanamh ná ag cur uisce isteach sa mheidir úd iníonacha Danáé, agus an t-uisce ag rith amach trí thóin na meidre chómh tiubh agus a chaithfead isteach é.

Zeús. Ná bíodh ceist ort. Mara ndúnaidh sé an poll go luath ní fada go mbeidh tusa imithe amach uaidh glan agus ansan gheóbhaidh sé an chasóg leathair agus an grafán arís sa dríodar i dtóin na meidre. Imigh ort anois agus dein fear saibhir de. Agus, a Herméis, ná dearúidse na Cúclópa do thabhairt chúm a hAetna, ag gabháil aníos duit, chun go ndéanfaid siad an caor tóirthní seo do dheisiú agus do bhiorú dhom. Ní fada go mbeidh gnó agam de agus é bioraithe.

Herm. Téanam ort, a Phloutois. Cad é sin ort, a dhuine? Tá ciscéim bacaí ionat. Bhí ’ fhios agam tu ’ bheith caoch ach níor thugas fé ndeara an bhacaí ’ bheith ort, leis.

Plout. Ní bhím bacach i gcónaí, a Herméis. Nuair a chuireann Zeús uaidh me mar seo ag triall ar dhuine bím ríghin agus bíonn an bhacaí im dhá chois i dtreó gurb ar éigin ’ fhéadaim an chuaird a chríochnú, agus go mbíonn an té ’na mbím ag dul ag triall air ’na sheanduine sara sroisim é. Nuair a bhím ag teacht uaidh, áfach, bíonn sciatháin le feiscint orm i dtreó gur luaithe me ná na héin, agus nách túisce do leagtar an bata ná mar a fógarthar an bua dhom. Cuirim an talamh díom chómh géar san gur minic ná feictear me ag gluaiseacht.

Hermés. Go deimhin féin, a Phloutois, ní fíor duit sin. D’fhéadfainnse a lán daoine ’ thaispeáint duit gur deineadh daoine saibhre dhíobh obann go leór. Is eól dom duine acu agus bhí sé lá gan oiread agus obolos aige lena gceannódh sé blúire ’ théad chun é féin do chrochadh, agus la ’rna mháireach a bhí chúinn bhí sé ’na shuí i gcóiste agus seisreach gheal dhá tharrac! Fear ná raibh fiú asal riamh roimis sin aige! Tá sé féin agus tuilleadh dá shórd, anois ag gluaiseacht go ceannárd agus clócaí dearga orthu agus fáinní óir ar a méireannaibh, agus nách fios dóibh féin, is dócha, ná d’éinne eile, nách saibhreas aislinge atá acu.

Plout. Scéal eile é sin, a Herméis. Ní har mo dhá chois féin a bhím ag siúl nuair a bhím ag dul ag triall orthu san, agus ní hé Zeús ach Ploutón a chuireann ag triall orthu me. Is bronntóir saibhris Ploutón, leis, mar is léir ón ainm atá air, agus tá sé fial. Nuair a bítear, an dtuigir, chun me ’ thabhairt ó dhuine go duine eile curtar isteach i ndeltos me, i gcúmhdach tríchúinneach, agus curtar séala orm agus árdaítear chun siúil me. San am gcéanna fágtar an corpán i gcúinne dhorcha éigin den tigh agus seanéadach lín ar a ghlúinibh agus na cait ag coímheascar ’na thímpall. Na daoine a bhíonn ag brath ar oidhreacht bíd siad ansúd ar an bhfaiche ag feitheamh liom agus a mbéil ar leathadh ar nós na ngeárrcach sa nid nuair a chíd siad a máthair ag teacht. Ansan, nuair a baintear an séala den chúmhdach, agus a geárrthar an ceangal, agus do hoscaltar an deltos, agus a glaeitear ainm an té gur leis me feasta, peocu gaol é nú plámásaí nú feallaire seirbhísigh, beireann sé orm féin agus ar an ndeltos agus sciobann sé chun siúil me agus ritheann sé leis féin. Ansan bíonn ainm nua air, Megaclés nú Megabásos nú Prótarchos, in inead a sheanainme, .i. Purrias nú Dromó nú Tibíos. An chuid eile den lucht feithimh, áfach, bíd siad go dúbhach agus go brónach ag féachaint ar a chéile, a súile ar leathadh acu, agus iad ag cuímhneamh ar an bpreabaire breá ronnaigh a dh’imigh as an líon uathu — tar éis ar chailleadar leis!

Ach an fear a gheibheann me, seo mar a dheineann sé, toisc é ’ bheith ’na bhastún. Beireann sé greim docht orm, agus eagla na lainncisí air fós, agus má airíonn sé fothram fuipe tagann bior ar a dhá chluais. Má chíonn sé tigh na hoibre bíonn urraim aige don tigh sin mar a bheadh ag duine do theampall. Tugann sé tarcaisne do sna cómharsain i dtreó nách féidir d’éinne cur suas leis. Sciúrsálann sé na daoir díreach mar a sciúrsáltí é féin agus bíonn iúnadh air é féin a bheith ag déanamh na sciúrsála in inead bheith dhá folag mar a bhíodh sé. Fé dheireadh, buaileann droch-chómhluadar uime; nú tugann sé aghaidh ar oiliúint eachra; nú tugann sé é féin suas do lucht plámáis a bhíonn dhá áiteamh air gur dathúla é ná Niréos; gurb uaisle é ná Cecrops agus ná Codros; gur géarchúisí é ná Odusséus; gur saibhre é ná sé Chroésos déag in éineacht. Ar leagadh na súl, sin imithe an saibhreas go léir úd a bailíodh chómh cruaidh, ’na chodaibh beaga, i ndiaidh ar ndiaidh, le leabhraibh éithigh agus le gníomharthaibh gadaíochta agus éagóra nárbh fhéidir a chómhaireamh.

Herm. Is beag ná go bhfuil an fhírinne sa méid sin agat. Ach nuair a ghluaiseann tú de shiúl do chos féin conas ’ fhéadann tú eólas na slighe ’ dh’fháil agus tu caoch? Agus conas ’ aithníonn tú na daoine ’na gcuireann Zeús ag triall orthu thu nuair a mheasann sé gur ceart iad a dhéanamh saibhir?

Plout. Agus an amhlaidh is dó’ leat go bhfaighim eólas! Agus go bhfaighim amach cé hiad!

Herm. Ambasa ach tá an ceart agat. Ní bhfaigheann tú amach iad. Dá bhfaighthá ní gheófá thar Aristídés agus ag triall ar Hippoménicos, agus ar Chaillias, agus ar a lán eile Aténach nách fiú obolos iad. Ach cad a dheineann tú nuair a curtar chun siúil tu?

Plout. Ní dheinim ach bheith ag fánaíocht síos agus suas agus ag rith anonn ’s anall go ráiníonn do dhuine éigin bualadh umam. An chéad duine a bhuaileann umam beireann sé greim orm agus cimeádann sé me agus tógann sé leis me agus ansan tugann sé baochas an tsaibhris duitse, a Herméis.

Herm. Den réir sin buailtear bob ar Zeús. Measann sé go dtugann tusa an saibhreas don té dár dual de réir a bhreithiúntais féin.

Plout. Buailtear, a mhic ó, agus is maith an ceart. Tá ’ fhios aige me ’ bheith caoch agus cuireann sé me ag lorg ruda atá fíordheocair le fáil sa tsaol, rud atá imithe as an saol le fada riamh, rud nárbh fhuiriste do Lungéus féin a dh’fháil, tá sé chómh beag san agus chómh deocair a dh’fheiscint. Dá bhrí sin, ó táid daoine fónta chómh gannachúiseach agus drochdhaoine chomh hiomadúil agus gur leó gach ní in sna cathrachaibh, is rófhuiriste dhómhsa, im fhánaíocht, teangmháil leis na drochdhaoinibh agus titim chúthu isteach ’na líntibh.

Herm. Ach nuair a bhíonn tú ag imeacht uathu conas ’ fhéadann tú imeacht agus gan eólas na slí agat?

Plout. ’S dó’ bíonn, ar chuma éigin, radharc ana-ghéar agam agus cuisíocht mhaith an uair sin, an fhaid a bhím ag imeacht, bíodh ná bíonn ach an fhaid sin.

Herm. Innis an méid seo dhom i dteannta na cod’ eile. Táir caoch. Ní foláir é ’ dh’ínsint duit. Táir mílítheach. Táir tromchosach. Conas a thárla, dá ainneóin sin go léir, oiread lucht grá ’ bheith agat? Bíonn gach éinne ag féachaint id dhiaidh. Má bhuaileann tú úmpu bíonn áthas an domhain orthu. Má chaillid siad thu is cuma nú bás dóibh é. Is eól dom féin cuid acu agus ní cuid bheag é, agus táid siad chómh mór san i ngrá leat gurbh fhonn leó, dá mba dhó’ leó go mbainfí dhíobh thu, seasamh ar mhullach carraige, os cionn na farraige, agus iad féin do chaitheamh síos le fánaidh i measc na míol mór. Agus go deimhin ní foláir duit féin a dh’admháil, má thuigeann tú in aon chor cad é an saghas tu, gur ar deargbhuile a bhíd siad agus bheith ag rith i ndiaidh do leithéid le grá dhuit!

Plout. Agus an amhlaidh a mheasann tusa go bhféachaimse ’na súilibh siúd díreach mar atáim, bacach, agus caoch, agus lán de sna drochthréithibh eile seo atá ionam?

Herm. Cad eile conas ’ fhéachfá ’na súilibh, mara rud é go bhfuilid siad féin chómh caoch leat?

Plout. Ní caoch atáid siad, a mhic ó, ach ainbhios agus dul amú a bheith ’na scamallaibh anuas orthu, fé mar atá anuas ar gach aon rud anois. Dá éaghmais sin deinim féin, i dtreó ná beadh an donas ar fad orm le míchúmthacht, cealltar álainn óir agus seód do chur ar m’aghaidh agus culaith thaithneamhach ioldathach do chur umam, nuair a bhím ag teacht ’na radharc. Ansan, nuair a chíd siad me measaid siad gurb í m’áilleacht féin a chíd siad agus titid siad i ngrá liom, agus bíd siad i riocht dul chun báis le neart buartha toisc nách féidir leó greim ’ fháil orm. Ach dá mbaintí dhíom go beacht agus ansan me ’ thaispeáint dóibh ní baol ná go mbeadh seirithean acu orthu féin mar gheall ar bheith chómh caoch, agus mar gheall ar ghrá ’ thabhairt do rud chómh mísciamhach.

Herm. Ach nuair a bhíonn an saibhreas acu agus an púicín curtha ar a súilibh acu cad uime go leanaid siad den dul amú? Ní hea ach dá gceapadh éinne an púicín a bhaint dá súilibh ba thúisce leó scarúint leis an gceann ná scarúint leis an bpúicín. Ní féidir dóibh an uair sin gan an scéal do thuiscint mar bíonn radharc ar gach ní acu ón dtaobh istigh.

Plout. Bíonn a lán rudaí ag cabhrú liomsa an uair sin féin, a Herméis.

Herm. Cad iad féin?

Plout. Nuair a bhuailim uime dhuine an chéad uair agus nuair ’ osclann sé a dhoras chun me ’ bhreith leis isteach ’na thigh tagann isteach in éineacht liom, i ganfhios do san, Uabhar agus Éirí ’n áirde agus Míchiall agus Drúisiúlacht agus Tarcaisniúlacht agus Feall, agus na mílte eile rudaí den tsórd san. Ansan, nuair a bhíd siad san go léir socair i seilbh in’ aigne, molann sé an rud nár chóir a mholadh agus is ionúin leis an rud ba chóir a sheachnadh, agus bíonn árdurraim aige dhómhsa, bíodh gur me is athair do sna holcaibh úd go léir a tháinig isteach liom, agus gurb iad mo ghárda iad, agus d’fhuiliceódh sé aon rud in aon chor níba thúisce ná mar ’ fhuiliceódh sé scarúint liom.

Herm. Is sleamhain an buachaill tu, a Phloutois, agus is slím an buachaill tu, agus is ana-dheocair greim a chimeád ort. Sleamhnaíonn tú a láimh dhuine, ar chuma éigin, mar a dhéanfadh an eascú nú an phiast, agus ní féidir leis an láimh greamú ar aon rud ionat. Ní mar sin don Dealús, áfach. Is cuma é nú bainne cí’ na n-éan. Is an-uiriste greim a chimeád air. Ní hea ach is ródheocair scarúint leis. Táid na mílte dúán ar gach aon bhlúire dhe, i dtreó, an té ’ théann ’na ghaire, go mbeirtear greim air agus gurb ana-dheocair do é féin do réiteach. Ach féach; táimíd ag cainnt agus tá dearúd mór déanta againn.

Plout. Cad é an dearúd é, is dó’?

Herm. Níor thugamair Tesauros linn agus ní féidir dúinn déanamh in’ éaghmais.

Plout. Ná bíodh ceist ort i dtaobh an méid sin. Nuair a bhímse ag teacht aníos ag triall oraibhse fágaim thíos é fén dtalamh agus abraim leis fanúint sa bhaile agus an doras do dhúnadh agus gan oscailt d’éinne mara n-airídh sé mise ag glaoch air.

Herm. Téanam ort, más ea, go hAttica. Tar anso im dhiaidh agus beir greim ar eireaball mo chasóige agus cimeád do ghreim go mbeimíd ann.

Plout. Is maith atá san déanta agat, a Herméis, an greim lámha sin do thabhairt dom. Mara mbeadh an greim is amhlaidh a bheinn ag fánaíocht agus b’fhéidir gurb é an cladhaire sin Huperbolus, nú an cuirpeach eile sin Cléón, a gheóbhadh greim orm! Ach cad é an fothram é seo mar a bheadh fothram iarainn i gcoinnibh cloiche?

Herm. Tímón atá ag rómhar thall ansan, agus tá an talamh cruaidh agus é lán de chlochaibh. Agus féach airiú! Tá daoine ’na theannta; Uireaspa; agus Saothar úd; agus Neart; agus Eagna; agus Meanmna; cuallacht mhór den mhuíntir a bhaineann le hocras; agus is feárr iad go mór ná do chuallachtsa.

Plout. Nách fearra dhúinn casadh thar n-ais láithreach, a Herméis? Ní féidir aon rud ab fhiú ’ dh’áireamh do dhéanamh d’fhear go bhfuil a leithéid sin de shlua ’na thímpall.

Herm. Ní hé sin a mheas Zeús ach a mhalairt, dá bhrí sin ná bíodh eagla orainn.

Uir. Cá raghair leis sin, a Argeifontéis, dhá ghiollacht ar láimh?

Herm. Zeús a chuir anso sinn ag triall ar Thímón so.

Uir. Ploutos dá chur anso anois ag triall ar Thímón, tar éis mise dhá thógaint as an ndroch-chor do bhí air ag Só, agus tar éis me dhá thabhairt suas dóibh seo, d’Eagna agus do Shaothar, i dtreó go bhfuil fear cuthaigh déanta agam de. An amhlaidh ná fuil meas níos feárr agat ormsa ná tu ’ theacht ag déanamh an uilc seo orm? An t-aon ní amháin fónta so atá agam do sciobadh uaim anois nuair atá fear creidiúnach déanta agam de, agus é ’ thabhairt thar n-ais do Phloutos i dtreó go dtabharfadh Ploutos suas é do Tharcaisne agus d’Uabhar chun é ’ chur sa riocht ’na raibh sé cheana acu, ’na spreas amadáin gan mheas air féin agus ansan é ’ chur thar n-ais ag triall ormsa nuair ná beidh ann ach seanacheairt!

Herm. Sin mar is toil le Zeús, a Uireaspa.

Uir. Beadsa ag imeacht más mar sin é, agus sibhse, a Shaothar agus a Eagna agus an chuid eile agaibh leanaidh me. Ach ní fada go mbeidh ’ fhios aige seo cad é an saghas mise, an té a thréigfidh sé anois; gur chabharthóir maith me, gur mhúineas an t-eólas is feárr do, an fhaid ’ fhan sé agam go raibh sláinte mhaith aige, aigne láidir, beatha fir; é aireach air féin; gan bheann ar shólaistíbh nár ghá agus nár oir.

Herm. Táid siad imithe! Téimísne ag triall air.

Tím. Cé hiad sibhse, a chuirpeacha? Nú cad a thug anso sibh ag cur isteach ar fhear oibre atá ag tuilleamh a pháigh? Ach ní bheidh sibh baoch díbh féin ag imeacht, a rudaí salacha! mar déanfadsa go tapaidh brú agus briseadh oraibh le fódaibh agus le clochaibh.

Herm. Stad, a Thímóin. Ná buail. Ní daoine sinne le bualadh agat. Mise Hermés agus is é Ploutos é seo. D’airigh Zeús do ghuíse agus chuir sé sinne chút. Caith uait an sclábhaíocht feasta agus glac an saibhreas so, agus go n-éirídh ádh leat!

Tím. Cuirfead teinneas oraibhse ar dtúis, bíodh gur déithe sibh dar libh. Tá gráin agam oraibh go léir idir dhéithibh agus daoine. Ach an cladhaire caoch so, déanfad miota beaga dhe lem ghrafán pé hé féin!

Plout. Téanam, a Herméis; bímís ag imeacht nú bascfaidh sé me! Tá an duine ar buile is dó’ liom.

Herm. Ná bí róthuathalach, a Thímóin. Cuir uait an ghoirgeacht san agus sín amach do lámh agus glac an séan. Bí i t’fhear shaibhir arís. Bí arís i t’fhear thosaigh i measc na nAténach, i t’éinne amháin a bheidh fé áthas, ag tarcaisniú lucht an neambaochais.

Tím. Níl aon ghá agam le haon rud uaibh. Ní beag liom de shaibhreas an rámhann so. Ná bídh ag cur isteach orm. Táim fé áthas an fhaid ná tiocfaidh éinne im ghaire.

Herm. Tusa, a chara, ag déanamh ruda chómh bun-os-cionn! Ní dhéanfadh éinne a leithéid. Cad é mar shaghas cainnte dhómhsa an chainnt sin le breith thar n-ais ag triall ar Zeús? B’fhéidir nách aon iúnadh fuath a bheith agat do dhaoinibh tar éis a bhfuil d’olc déanta acu ort. Ach cad chuige go mbeadh fuath agat do dhéithibh agus na déithe chómh mór ar mhaithe leat?

Tím. Táim ana-bhaoch díotsa, a Herméis, agus de Zeús, de bhárr úr n-aireachais orm. Ach an Ploutos so, ní ghlacfad in aon chor é.

Herm. Cad ’na thaobh?

Tím. Mar, san aimsir atá imithe bhí sé ’na thrúig leis na míltibh mí-ádha dhom. Do chruinnigh sé lucht plámáis im thímpall agus thug sé suas me dhóibh. Thug sé suas me do lucht ceilge. Do mhúiscil sé fearg daoine im choinnibh. Do loit sé me le sólaistíbh. Chuir sé an saol go léir ag formad liom. Ansan do rith sé leis féin go hobann uaim nuair ná raibh aon choinne agam le hé ’ bheith ag imeacht. Dhein sé feall caillte orm sa méid sin. Ach do tháinig chúm an uasal san, Uireaspa, agus mhúin sí dhom conas obair fir do dhéanamh, agus tháinig in éineacht léi fírinne agus saorchainnt agus d’fhanadar agam agus thugadar dom slí bheatha de thoradh mo shaothair, agus thaispeánadar dom conas neamhshuím do chur in sna nithibh eile úd agus mo sheasamh ar fad do bheith agam orm féin. Thaispeánadar dom an saibhreas atá agam féin, an saibhreas nách féidir do lucht plámáis a bhaint díom, ná do lucht cúlchainnte, ná do thuathalánaibh, ná do chainnteóiríbh poiblí an toghcháin, ná do thíoránachaibh cealgacha. Tá sláinte mhaith agam ó bheith ag obair. Tá an talamh agam á shaothrú. Ní fheicim drochbhéasa na cathrach. Tá tuilleadh agus mo dhóthain le n-ithe agam óm ghrafán. Dá bhrí sin, a Herméis, imigh thar n-ais ar cos in áirde ag triall ar Zeús agus beir leat an Ploutos so, agus má chuireann sé a bhfuil de dhaoine ar an saol ag gol beadsa sásta!

Herm. Ná habair sin, a mhic ó. Ní hé gach éinne atá oiriúnach chun guil. Seo, cuir uait an fhearg leanbaí sin agus glac Ploutos. Ní ceart bronntanas ó Zeús do tharcaisniú.

Ploutos. Féach, a Thímóin, ar mhiste leat mise do phlé mo chúise féin id choinnibh, nú an mbeidh fearg ort chúm má labhraim?

Tím. Labhair, ach ná bí i bhfad leis. Ná bíodh roimrá fada agat i dtosach do chainnte mar a bhíonn ag na cainnteóiríbh móra so. Cuirfead suas le roinnt bheag cainnte uait ar son Herméis anso.

Plout. Is amhlaidh mar atá sé, níor mhór dhom cuid mhaith cainnte ’ dhéanamh tá an oiread san curtha im leith agat. Ach feiceam cad é an díobháil a dheineas in aon chor duit, ós fíor gur me do thug an uile shaghas sóláis duit. Thugas onóir chút. Thugas uachtaránacht chút. Thugas réim chút. Thugas an chraobh chút; agus mórán sólaistí. Bhís mór i súilibh daoine mar gheall orm, bhí cáil agus oirearcas ort tríom bíthinn. Má dhein lucht plámáis díobháil duit ní hormsa is cóir a mhilleán san do chur. Do dheinis-se féin díobháil mhór dómhsa sa ní sin. Thugais tarcaisne agus easonóir dom i láthair drochdhaoine nuair a bhídís ’od mholadh agus iad ag magadh fút, a d’iarraidh greama ’ dh’fháil orm uait. Dúraís i ndeireadh do chainnte gur dheineas feall ort. Níor dheineas. Is tusa a dhein an feall ormsa. Do dhíbrís uait me, do chaithis amach as do thigh me ar mhullach mo chínn. Tá a rian ort. In inead an éadaigh uasail a bhí agamsa ort tá an chasóg leathair sin ort, an chasóg a chuir an uasal úd, Uireaspa, umat. Tá ’ fhios ag Hermés féin anso cad é a dhéine d’iarras ar Zeús gan me ’ chur ag triall ort a thuilleadh tar éis a raibh d’olc déanta agat orm.

Herm. Ach chíonn tú anois, a Phloutois, conas atá iompaithe amach aige. Fear dáiríribh is ea é anois. Dá bhrí sin fan anso in’ fhochair agus ná bíodh aon cheist ort fanúint. Agus tusa, a Thímóin, lean ar an rómhar. Deinse, a Phloutois, Tesauros do thabhairt anso féna ghrafán chuige. Tiocfaidh Tesauros nuair a ghlaofairse air.

Tím. Ní foláir dom géilleadh, a Herméis, agus bheith im fhear shaibhir arís. Cad is féidir do dhuine ’ dhéanamh ach géilleadh nuair is iad na déithe atá ag órdú. Ach féach a bhfuil de thrioblóid agat á thabhairt anuas i mullach an chínn orm. Tá mo shaol caite fé áthas agam go dtí so. Caithfead anois an t-ór so go léir do ghlacadh go hobann agus an cúram mór a leanann é do ghlacadh orm, agus gan aon rud déanta as an slí agam chun an phionóis sin do thuilleamh.

Herm. Glac ort an cúram, a Thímóin, bíodh gur trom é. Fuilig an cúram agus cuir an lí bhuí, le formad, ar na plámásaithibh úd. Sceinnfeadsa suas ar neamh feasta ó mhullach Aetna.

Plout. Tá sé siúd imithe, is dó’ liom. Airím fuaim a sciathán. Fanse mar atá agat ansan. Imeódsa agus cuirfead chút Tesauros. Lean ar an rómhar. A Thesaurois an óir, tar anso láithreach, sa talamh, fé ghrafán Thímóin, i dtreó go mbainfidh sé aníos as an dtalamh thu!

Tím. Seo leat, a ghrafáinín! Neartaigh thu féin agus tabhair Tesauros ar an saol, aníos as an dtalamh, chun solais na gréine! — Ó! an t-ór! an t-ór go léir! A Zeúis iúntaigh! A Chorubanteacha an charadais! A Herméis an tsaibhris! Cá bhfuaradh an t-ór so go léir. An im chodla atáim agus ag taibhreamh? Ní héidir go ndúiseóinn agus ná faighinn san ór so ach gual!

-se: an emphatic particle. PUL’s comments in NIWU (p45) that fan-se, fan-sa and fain-se were all found as the emphatic forms of the imperative fan indicate some variation.

abhar: ábhar in GCh. WM Irish distinguishes between abhar (originally spelt adhbhar, now pronounced /aur/), “material”, and ábhar (sometimes written ádhbhar, pronounced /ɑ:vər/), “amount”. Ar an abhar san, “for that reason”.

abraim, rá: “to assert, pronounce”; pronounced /ɑbərimʹ, rɑ:/. Historically, this is the dependent form of deirim, but occasional use in absolute position is found, where the verb adopts the nuance of “stating, asserting, telling emphatically”.

ae: “liver”, pronounced /e:/.

aighneas: “contention, argument”, pronounced /əinʹəs/.

aimhleasta: “misguided”; pronounced /ailʹəstə/.

anacróir: “miserable wretch”.

baochas: “thanks”, or buíochas in GCh.

bastún: “fool, lout, blockhead”.

bata: “stick”. Nách túisce do leagtar an bata, “as soon as the signal is given to start a race/contest”.

beárna: “gap”.

bioraím, biorú: “to sharpen”.

bladhm: “flame, blaze”; pronounced /bləim/.

bodhar: “deaf”; pronounced /bour/.

bronntanas: “gift, present”, pronounced /brountənəs/. With bronntaisíbh in the dative plural.

bronntóir: “giver, bestower”; pronounced /broun’to:rʹ/.

buaiceas: “lamp wick”.

búirtheach: “roar, roaring”, or búireach in GCh.

cabharthóir: “helper”, or cabhróir in GCh. Pronounced /kour’ho:rʹ/.

cabhraím, cabhrú: “to help”, used with le. Pronounced /kou’ri:mʹ, kou’ru:/.

caillte: “lost”, but also “dreadful, sordid”; pronounced /kailʹhi/.

callaireacht: “an act of scolding or ranting”.

caol: “something slender”, and thus “wrist, ankle”. Ceangal na gcúig gcaol do chur ar dhuine, “to bind someone hand and foot”.

caoldrom: “the small of the back”, or caoldroim in GCh.

caradach: “friendly”. Substantivised and used in the vocative here, a Charadaigh, in the sense of “thou lord of friendship”, in reference to Jupiter.

caradas: “friendship”, or cairdeas in GCh.

cathain: “when?”, pronounced /kə’hinʹ/.

cealgach: “treacherous, guileful”; pronounced /kʹaləgəx/.

cealltar: “vizor to cover the face”; pronounced /kʹaulhər/.

ceannárd: “haughty; with pride, with their heads held high”; pronounced /kʹaun-ɑ:rd/.

ceathrú: “thigh”; pronounced /kʹar’hu:/. The plural is ceathrúna.

cith: “shower”, e.g. of rain, but also referring to a hail of bullets or of other projectiles (including Jupiter’s thunderbolts here). With ceathanna in the plural.

clóic: “gloom; loss of stamina or energy, interference with staying powers”.

cloich-shneachta: “hailstone”. Pronounced /kloi’hnʹaxtə/. GCh has cloch shneachta. The medial ich here suggests this is better written as a compound noun.

cluas: “ear”, with cluais in the dual.

cnámh: “bone” with cnámha in the plural; pronounced /knɑ:v, knɑ:/.

cóiste: “coach, carriage”.

Colutéach: “inhabitant of Collytus/Kollytos”. Collytus was a suburb of ancient Athens.

cómhaireamh: “counting (money)”. Pronounced /ko:rʹəv/.

cómhrac: “fight, fray”, pronounced /ko:rək/. Sos cómhraic, “ceasefire”.

comóraim, comóradh: “to celebrate, convene” (a relatively rare word; the finite verb is not attested in WM literature).

Corubanteach: “Corybant”, a dancer who worshipped the Phrygian goddess Cybele.

cos: “foot” Ar cos in áirde, “at a gallop”.

craobh: “branch; palm, laurels, victory”.

craosach: “ravening, voracious”.

creimim, creimeadh: “to gnaw at”.

Crétánach: “Cretan”, an inhabitant of Crete in Greece.

criathar: “sieve”, with créithir in the genitive.

cruagálach: “stingy, niggardly”, or cruálach in GCh.

cuisíocht: “step, gait, footsteps”, or coisíocht in GCh.

cúlchainnt: “backbiting”. Pronounced /ku:l-xaintʹ/. Lucht cúlchainnte, “backbiters, slanderers”.

cúlchraos: “back of the throat”.

cúmhdach: “covering; envelope”. Pronounced /ku:dəx/.

cúmpánach: “companion”, or compánach in GCh.

cuthach: “rage, fury”. The genitive cuthaigh does service as an adjective, “angry, furious, fierce”, but also “valiant”.

daingean: “a secure bar of some kind”. Duine ’ chimeád fé ghlasaibh agus fé dhaingeanaibh, “to hold someone locked up securely”.

dánaíocht: “boldness”, or dánacht in GCh.

daonna: “human being”. This is also an adjective, “human”, but síol beag daonna seems to have the genitive plural of the noun.

dea-chómharsanacht: “neighbourliness, doing good turns for others”.

dea-ghníomh: “good deed”. The pronunciation is often /dʹəi-ɣnʹi:v/.

dea-mhéinn: “good will”, or dea-mhéin in GCh. Pronounced /dʹa-vʹe:ŋʹ/.

dea-theangmhálaí: “a good associate, someone people like to come across”, or dea-theagmhálaí in GCh (this word is given in De Bhaldraithe for “diplomat”). Pronounced /dʹa-haŋə’vɑ:li:/.

deargbhuile: “rage, fury”, pronounced /dʹarəg-vilʹi/. Ar deargbhuile, “raging mad, furious”.

dearglasadh: “blazing”, generally found as ar dearglasadh. Pronounced /dʹarəg-lɑsə/.

deltos: a Greek word is given here for “envelope, parchment”.

Diásacha (na Diásacha): “the Diasia”, the greatest Athenian festival, held in honour of Zeus.

docht: “hard, tough, tight”.

doicheall: “inhospitality, churlishness”; pronounced /dohəl/.

droch-chómhluadar: “bad company”; pronounced /dro-xo’luədər/.

droch-chor: “bad state, being in a bad way”.

drochaigeanta: “malevolent, ill-disposed”; pronounced /dro-hagʹəntə/.

drochbheart: “evil deed”; pronounced /dro-vʹart/; with drochbhearta in the plural.

drochbhéas: “vice, bad habit”; pronounced /dro-vʹias/.

drochbhreithiúntas: “poor judgement”. Pronounced /dro-vrʹe’hu:ntəs/.

drochthréith: “bad quality, bad trait”. Pronounced /dro-hrʹe:h/.

drúisiúlacht: “lasciviousness, lustfulness”.

dúán: “fish-hook”.

duine: “person”. Note a láimh dhuine, “out of someone’s hand”, with lenition of duine, in the meaning, not of “human”, but of “a person’s”.

dúr: this has a range of meanings including “dour” and “sluggish”. The reference here is probably to a lantern being “dimly lit”.

éag: “death”. In éag, “extinguished”.

eascú: “eel”, or eascann in GCh.

easonóir: “dishonour”; pronounced /ɑsə’no:rʹ/.

easúmhlaíocht: “disobedience”; pronounced /ˌɑsu:’li:xt/.

éidir: “possible”. Éidir is distinguished from féidir by an additional rhetorical nuance: ní héidir (go), “surely it’s not possible, I suppose it’s not possible (that)”.

eile: “other”. Note reduplication in cad eile ca bhfuil…? and cad eile conas…? This construction was explained by PUL in an undated letter to Shán Ó Cuív held in the G,1276 collection of manuscripts in the National Library of Ireland. There he wrote: “Agus cad eile cad dúbhradar? is what I have always heard in all questions of that sort. ‘What else is it?’ is in Irish always ‘What else what is it?’ Cad eile cad é an nídh é? ‘What else did he do?’ = Cad eile cad a dhein sé? ‘What else could I do?’ = Cad eile cad fhéadfinn a dhéanamh? There is, you see, a sort of double interrogative. In fact, the English which the people use in that last question is ‘What else what could I do?’ i.e. ‘What could I do? and in what is (the thing you would say) different from this?’ It’s an Irish mode of thought quite different from any English mode of thought. An intervening word might spoil the double character of the question e.g. Cad é an focal eile a dúbhradar? No second cad ever came in there.”

éisteacht: “hearing, power of hearing”.

éitheach: “falsehood”. Leabhar éithigh a thabhairt, “to swear falsely, perjure yourself”.

faiche: “green, lawn”; pronounced /fɑhə/.

faidbhéimneach: “of long range”; pronounced /fɑdʹ-vʹe:mʹinʹəx/.

fairim, faire: “to watch”. Faire chút isn’t well glossed in dictionaries, but ag faire chun bheith úmhal dom, “making sure to be obedient to me”.

fánaí: “vagrant”. Cuirpeach fánaí, “runway convict or villain”.

feárr, fearra: “better”. Fearra, /fʹarə/, is a colloquial form of feárr, /fʹa:r/. Fearra is more commonly used before dhuit, dho and related prepositional pronouns.

fiach: “raven”, generally as fiach dubh, with fiacha dúbha, /fʹiəxə du:/, in the plural.

fiannaíocht: “Fenian tales”, and thus “fudge, nonsense, idle talk”.

filosofeach: “philosopher”.

fíoriúntach: “truly surprising”, or fíoriontach in GCh.

fórleathan: “wide-ranging, extensive”. Pronounced /fo:rlʹəhən/, with a broad r and a slender l.

fothramálaí: “thunderer”. Pronounced /fohərəmɑ:li:/.

fuinneamh: “energy, vigour, momentum”.

gal suip: “moonshine, something ephemeral”. Literally the smoke from a wisp of straw.

gannachúiseach: “scarce, thin on the ground”, or gannchúiseach in GCh.

gearr-radharcach: “short-sighted”.

gearraim, gearradh: “to cut”. The present autonomous, found here as gearrtar, is edited here as geárrthar.

geárrcach: “nestling, fledgling”; pronounced /gʹa:rkəx/.

glas: “lock”. Note duine ’ chimead fé ghlasaibh, “to keep someone locked up”. PSD stated that fé ghlasaibh was used with reference to people kept locked up (compare rud do chur fé ghlas in reference to a thing kept under lock and key).

glór: “noise, sound”.

goirgeacht: “roughness, ill-temperedness”, pronounced /gorʹigʹəxt/.

gráfáinín: “little hoe”.

grafán: “grubbing hoe”.

greamaím, greamú: “to fix, fasten; grasp hold of”.

iarracht: “attempt”, but also “a bit, a touch” of something.

íbirt: “sacrifice”, or íobairt in GCh; pronounced /i:birtʹ/ according to IWM (§57), with a broad b, but PUL consistently wrote a slender b in this word. The plural here is íbeartha, where GCh has íobairtí. Íbirtí céad, “sacrifices of whole hecatombs”, i.e. sacrifices of a hundred oxen at a time. FGB claims there is an Irish word heiceatóm.

imigéiniúil: “remote”.

iomad: “much, too much; an exceedingly great amount”, pronounced /uməd/.

ionúine: “affection”. Pronounced /u’nu:nʹi/.

lainncis: “fetter(s), iron(s)”; pronounced /laiŋkʹiʃ/.

leamhfhuar: “cool-tempered”. Pronounced /lʹav-uər/.

leannán: “lover, paramour, harlot”.

lí: “complexion”. Lí bhuí, “jaundice”, spelt liathbhuidhe in the original text, possibly through some etymological confusion. An lí bhuí do chur ar dhuine, “to make someone green with envy”.

líon: “net”, with líntibh in the dative plural.

lobhaim, lobhadh: “to rot, decompose”; pronounced /loumʹ, lou/.

luathghníomhach: “fast-acting”.

lúb: “loop, twist”. Lúb ar lár, “a dropped stitch in knitting; a weak or defective point”, and thus lúb ar lár do thógaint, “to supply a deficiency”.

machtíre: “wolf”, or mac tíre in GCh. Note: PUL was insistent that this is one word, with a lenited c. With machtírí in the plural.

mainséar: “manger”, pronounced /main’ʃe:r/.

máireach: “morrow.” La ’rna mháireach, “on the following day” [ “day”, ar “after”, n-a “its”, mháireach “morrow”]. Note that the a of la is pronounced short: /larnə vɑ:rʹəx/.

mairg: “woe”; pronounced /mɑrʹigʹ/. Nách mairg ná déanfadh búirtheach, agus fothram, agus dánaíocht!, “isn’t it dreadful to be unprepared to roar, and make noise and be audacious!/there’s nothing like roaring, making noise and being audacious!”

mandrác: “mandrake”, with the síneadh fada added in this edition. Pronounced /mən’drɑ:k/.

maolaím, maolú: “to blunt, make blunt”; pronounced /me:’li:mʹ, me:’lu:/.

mart: “slaughtered cow”.

maslaitheach: “insulting, abusive”, or maslach in GCh.

maslaitheóir: “abuser, insulter”, or maslóir in GCh. Pronounced /mɑsli’ho:rʹ/.

meadar: “wooden pail”, with meidre in the genitive and meidir in the dative. Pronounced /mʹadər, mʹedʹirʹi, mʹedʹirʹ/.

méanfaíoch: “yawning”. Ag méanfaíoch ar rud, “yearning for something”. Note that PUL generally has ag méanfaíoch, where AÓL has ag méanfaígh.

méith: “fat, juicy”.

mí-ádh: “misfortune”; pronounced /ˌmʹi:’ɑ:/. The genitive is edited here as mí-ádha.

mífhoirtiúnach: “unfortunate”; or mífhortúnach in GCh. Pronounced /mʹi:-or’tʹu:nəx/, with a broad r.

milleán: “blame, censure”.

miniceacht: “frequency”, or minicíocht in GCh.

míol: “animal; creature, sea monster”. Míol mór, “whale”.

mionnacheap: “avenger of false oaths”.

miota: “bit, mite, fragment”; pronounced /mʹitə/. The nominative plural here is also miota.

mírafar: “luckless, unfortunate”.

mísciamhach: “unattractive, ill-favoured in terms of looks”.

mórbhriathrach: possibly “using grandiose language, grandiloquent”, pronounced /muər-vriərhəx/.

mórmhí-ádh: “great misfortune”; pronounced /muər-vʹi:-ɑ:/.

mórthímpall: “circuit; all around”, or mórthimpeall in GCh. The broad p in WM Irish is preserved here: /muər-hi:mʹpəl/.

músclaim/múisclim, múiscilt: “to stir, arouse”, or músclaím, múscailt in GCh. The preterite is do mhúiscil here, where GCh would have mhúscail. Pronounced /mu:skəlimʹ~mu:ʃkʹilʹimʹ, mu:ʃkʹilhʹ/.

nead: “nest”, with nid in the dative. In PUL’s Irish, this word seems to be masculine in the nominative, but sometimes feminine in the dative. Nead is feminine in GCh.

néal: “a wink of sleep”.

neambaochas: “ingratitude, thanklessness”; or neamhbhuíochas in GCh. Pronounced /nʹa’me:xəs/. Lucht an neambaochais, “the ungrateful”.

neómat: “minute, moment”, or nóiméad in GCh. The various words for “minute” in Irish are all corruptions of the original móimeint.

oiliúint: “nourishment, care; training, education”. Oiliúint eachra, “training of horses for the turf”.

oineach: “honour, good name”, but also “hospitality, generosity”; pronounced /enʹəx/. A Oinigh in the vocative here is glossed in the early edition of Lúcián as “soul of hospitality”.

olc: “evil, a bad thing” with uilc in the genitive singular. Pronounced /olk, ilkʹ/.

Oluimpiaigh (na hOluimpiaigh): “the Olympic Games”. GCh has na Cluichí Oilimpeacha.

pá: “pay”, with páigh in the genitive.

philosopher: this spelling is used here rather than the filosofor in the original text, as this is clearly the English word.

preabaire: “lusty fellow”, referring here to a fish leaping out of a net.

púicín: “mask”.

rabairne: “extravagance”. Lucht rabairne, “extravagant people”.

rámhann: “spade”, or rámhainn in GCh. Pronounced /rɑ:n/.

reachtaire: “steward, administrator”.

réitím, réiteach: “to put in order, settle”, but also “to clear, disentangle, extricate”.

rian: “trace, mark”. Tá a rian air, “it is clear, it is obvious, it looks like it; it showed, you could tell”.

roimrá: “preface, preamble”, or réamhrá in GCh. Possibly to be edited as roimhrá?

rómhar: “digging”; pronounced /ro:r/.

rómhraim, rómhar: “to dig”, or rómhraím, rómhar in GCh. Pronounced /ro:rimʹ, ro:r/.

ronnach: “mackerel”, with ronnaigh in the genitive. Pronounced /rə’nɑx, runigʹ/.

sabh: “rod, bar, bolt, shaft”.

saibhir: “rich, wealthy”, with the plural saibhre. Pronounced /sevʹirʹ, sevʹirʹi/.

saibhrím, saibhriú: “to enrich; to get rich”; pronounced /sevʹi’rʹi:mʹ, sevʹi’rʹu:/.

salach: “dirty”, pronounced /slɑx/.

sciúrsálaim, sciúrsáil: “to scourge”, pronounced /ʃkʹu:r’sɑ:limʹ, ʃkʹu:r’sɑ:lʹ/.

scuabaire: “sweeper”, or scuabadóir in GCh.

séala: “seal”.

seanacheairt: “old rag”, or seancheirt in GCh.

seananós: “old or established custom”.

seasc: “barren, sterile”, referring here to Danáé kept locked up and condemned to infertility.

seisreach: “plough team”; pronounced /ʃeʃirʹəx/.

seithe: “skin, hide”, pronounced /ʃehi/.

seóid: “jewel, valuable object”, with seód in the genitive plural.

síorchómhaireamh: “constantly counting (money)”. Pronounced /ʃi:r-xo:rʹəv/.

slí bheatha: “way of life”, and thus “a livelihood, a living”.

slím: “sleek, slippery”.

sliocht: “progeny”. Fé shliochtaibh séalaí is explained in the foclóirín attached to the early edition of Lúcián as “under a series of seals” (the phrase ó shliocht go sliocht illustrates how sliocht/sliochta can become understood as a series of something).

smearaim, smearadh: “to smear, daub”.

sméaróid: “red-hot coal, ember”.

smidiríní: “small fragments, smithereens”.

smior: “marrow”, e.g. of a bone. Pronounced /smʹir/.

sochar: “advantage, benefit”.

sólaistí: “delicacies, dessert”.

sophist: the English word is given here. FGB has sofaist, but it is clear this is just a respelling of sophist.

spaidchluasach: “hard of hearing”. GCh has spadchluasach, which form stood in the original hear, being adjusted in this edition with the form found in PUL’s other works.

spaidiúlacht: “sluggishness, inertia”.

spalla: “chip, pebble”.

splanncaire: “launcher of lightning”, in reference to Jupiter. Pronounced /splauŋkirʹi/.

spreas: “a weak, worthless person; a corner-boy”.

srón: “nose”, with sróin in the dative singular.

sú: “soot”.

suairc: “pleasant, gay”.

súiloscailte: “with your eyes wide open”.

súim, sú: “to suck, suck up”.

taibhrím, taibhreamh: “to dream”; pronounced /təi’rʹiːmʹ, təirʹəv/.

taithneamhach: “pleasing, agreeable; shining”, or taitneamhach in GCh; pronounced /taŋʹhəvəx/.

taoisc: “downpour”. Fearthainn ’na taoisceanna diana, “raining cats and dogs”.

tapúlacht: “quickness, speediness”.

tarcaisniúlacht: “contemptuousness, scornfulness”.

téad: “rope”. Blúire ’ théad, “some rope”, appears to have elided a dhe and also fails to give the dative téid.

teangmhaím, teangmháil: “to come into contact with something/someone; touch”, used with le, or teagmhaím, teagmháil in GCh. Pronounced /tʹaŋə’vi:mʹ, tʹaŋə’vɑ:lʹ/.

teasaí: “quick-tempered”.

nteánach: “host, entertainer”.

otán: “Titan”, the second generation of Greek gods, who succeeded the primordial deities (Chronos, Gaia, Uranus, etc) and were in turn succeeded by the Olympians (Zeus, etc).

togha: “pick, choice”; pronounced /tou/. Togha pionóis, “condign punishment”.

toghchán: “(political) election”; pronounced /tou’xɑ:n/.

tréigim, tréigean: “to abandon, forsake”.

trí: “through”. This combines with the possessive mo as tríom.

tríchúinneach: “three-cornered”.

tromchodladh: “deep sleep”; pronounced /troum-xolə/.

tromchosach: “with a heavy, lumbering gait”. Pronounced /troum-xə’sɑx/.

tuathalach: “blundering”.

tuathalán: “tactless person”, used here in the sense of “blabbermouth”.

uaigneas: “loneliness; lonely, desolate place”, pronounced /uəgʹinʹəs/.

uasal: “noble”, subsantivised as an uasal in reference to “want, poverty”, anthropomorphised as a woman.

uilechómhachtach: “all powerful”, or uilechumhachtach in GCh.

uireaspa: “want, poverty”; or uireasa in GCh. AÓL had uireasa. Oireasa in Séadna shows the p may or may not be present, and that the first vowel may be /e/ or /i/.

úmhal: “humble, obedient”. Pronounced /u:l/.

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Lucian 27

XXVII. Menippos agus Philónidés

(Ar leanúint.)

Nuair a taispeánadh an cosán dúinn do chomáineamair linn, Mítróbarsánés ar tosach agus mise ’na dhiaidh, lena shálaibh agus greim daingean agam ar eireaball a bhrait. Thánamair go dtí machaire breá fada fairseag agus brat álainn de bhláthannaibh asphodeil air. Ansan do mhothaíomair ’nár dtímpall na slóite samhal agus iad ag gluaiseacht agus ag putharnaigh. Chomáineamair linn go dtánamair mar a raibh suí breatha Mhínóis. Bhí an suí breatha árd agus bhí Mínós ’na shuí in áirde air agus a chómhachta díoltais ’na thímpall, agus deamhain an uilc ag friothálamh air mar aon leis na fíochaibh. Bhíomairne ar thaobh agus chonacamair dá dtabhairt isteach ón dtaobh eile a lán daoine agus iad ceangailte ar shlabhra fhada. Do hínseadh dúinn gurbh é saghas daoine iad ná lucht adhaltranais, agus lucht soláthair chun drúise, agus lucht sraith do bhailiú, agus lucht brasaireachta, agus lucht uisce-fé-thalamh, slua mhór de chuirpeachaibh a bhíodh ag cur an tsaeil trína chéile an fhaid a bhíodar beó. Agus do tugadh isteach ar leithligh lucht an tsaibhris agus iúncamais, agus iad go mílítheach, agus builg mhóra orthu, agus gúta orthu, agus cuíng ar mhuineál gach duine acu agus crúca sa cheann tíos de’n chuíng, agus meáchaint dhá thalant sa chuíng.

Sheasaíomairne, áfach, mar a raibh againn agus sinn ag faire orthu agus ag éisteacht leó dhá gcosaint féin. Do tháinig ann, áfach, fínnithe éagsamhlacha dhá ndaoradh agus ag cur nithe ’na leith.

Phil. Agus cérbh iad san is dó’? As ucht Zeúis innis an méid sin dom agus ná ceil orm é!

Men. Is eól duit, is dócha, na scáileanna so a dheineann solas na gréine ónár gcolannaibh.

Phil. Is eól go maith.

Men. Nuair a gheibhimíd bás tagaid na scáileanna san agus tugaid siad fínné ’nár gcoinnibh agus deimhníd siad gach coir dá mbíonn déanta againn i gcaitheamh ár mbeatha, agus go deimhin ní foláir a dh’admháil gur dócha go mbíonn an fhírinne ag cuid acu toisc iad a bheith in aice linn i gcónaí agus ná scaraid siad choíche lenár gcolannaibh. Ach do scrúdaíodh Mínós go cruínn cás gach duine agus ansan do dhíbreadh sé é go háit na ndrochaicme chun go gcurfí pionós air de réir a ghníomhartha. Bhí Mínós ana-dhian, áfach, ar an lucht a bhíodh ag maíomh as a gcuid saibhris agus as pé cómhacht a bhíodh acu; dhá mheas gur cheart iad d’adhradh nách mór. Bhí gráin aige orthu mar gheall ar an mór-is-fiú a bhí chómh neambuan, agus ná cuímhnídís go n-imeódh an saibhreas agus go n-imeóidís féin, leis. Ach iad san, nuair a bhí an áilleacht go léir bainte dhíobh, an saibhreas, agus an uaisleacht cine, agus na cómhachta, bhíodar ansúd agus iad lomrachta, agus iad cromtha síos, agus gan de chuímhne acu ar an sólás a bhí anso acu ach mar a bheadh taibhreamh. Bhíodh aiteas mór ormsa nuair a chínn na nithe sin. Nuair a dh’aithnínn duine acu do dhridinn chuige go réidh agus chuirinn i gcuímhne dho an saol breá a bhí aige nuair a bhí sé beó, an mór-is-fiú a bhíodh air nuair a bhíodh na daoine bailithe amu’ ag á gheata ag feitheamh go dtiocfadh sé amach agus a sheirbhísigh dhá gcomáint chun siúil agus ag dúnadh an gheata ’na gcoinnibh. Agus ansan, nuair a thagadh sé amach fé dheireadh, agus a chlócaí dearga uime, go hórga agus go hioldathach, conas mar a mheasadh sé in’ aigne go gcuireadh sé áthas agus aoibhneas an domhain orthu nuair ’ fháiltídís roimis, mara ndeineadh sé ach a ucht nú a lámh dheas do thabhairt le pógadh dhóibh. Chuireadh na nithe sin buairt thar bhárr orthu nuair a chuímhnídís orthu.

Ach do thug Mínós aon bhreith amháin a bhí claon. Bhí Díonusios, an tíoránach Siculach, ar a thriail agus bhí Díon ag cur a lán gníomhartha gráinniúla ’na leith, agus an scáil dhá ndeimhniú. Do bhíothas díreach chun Díonusiois do cheangal den Chimaéra nuair a labhair Aristippos an Cúrénach. Fear is ea an t-Aristippos san ’na bhfuil ana-chreidiúint aige agus an-urraim do laistíos. Duairt sé go raibh Díonusios cabharthach cúntach i gcaitheamh a bheatha do lucht léinn agus go dtugadh sé airgead dóibh go minic. Do saoradh Díonusios mar gheall air sin.

Ansan d’fhágamair an suí breatha agus thánamair go háit na bpian. B’in é an áit, a dhuine mhuínteartha, ’na raibh nithe truamhéileacha le feiscint agus le haireachtaint go hiomadúil. D’airíomair fuaim agus greadadh ó sna sciúirsíbh géara, agus scréacharnach na ndaoine a bhí dá loscadh ar na tínteachaibh teó; agus na riaganna; agus na coiléir; agus na rothanna. Bhí an Cimaéra dhá stracadh, agus bhí Cerberos dhá stracadh as a chéile agus dhá n-ithe. Ríthe, daoir, sátraip, daoine saibhre, daoine bochta, lucht déarca, agus iad go léir ag folag pionóis agus cathú orthu mar gheall ar na drochghníomhartha do dheineadar. Bhíomairne ag féachaint orthu agus d’aithníomair cuid acu, go mór mór an chuid acu a bhí tar éis bháis ’ fháil le deireanaí. Ach d’fholaidís iad féin agus d’iompaídís uainn nuair ’ fhéachaimís orthu, agus bhíodh ceann-fé orthu, in inead an uabhair agus an bhuirbe agus an tarcaisne a thaispeánaidís do chách an fhaid a bhíodar ar an saol so.

Do maití leath an phionóis do sna daoine bochta. Do tugtí sos ar feadh tamaill dóibh agus ansan do curtí an pionós arís orthu.

Do chonacamair, leis, san áit, na fathaigh úd, Icsion agus Sisuphos, agus Tantalos an Phrúgach agus é i gcruachás, agus Tituos mac na Talún, agus ó, a Heracléis, ba mhór é! Bhí gáire* ar fad faoi agus é sínte.

D’fhágamair iad san, leis, agus thánamair go dtí an machaire Acherúsach. Fuaramair sa mhachaire sin na leathdhéithe agus na banghaiscígh, agus na slóite eile marbh agus iad riartha de réir cine agus treabhchais, cuid acu ag dreó le haois agus iad, mar adeir Hómér ana-lag, agus cuid acu úrnua folláin, go mór mór an chuid acu do tháinig ón Éigipt, mar gheall ar a fheabhas a cuireadh ar salann iad. Agus go deimhin duit níor rófhuiriste iad d’aithint ó chéile mar is fíordheallraitheach lena chéile iad go léir, toisc a gcnámha ’ bheith lom. Is ar éigin ’ fhéadamair iad d’aithint tar éis iad d’iniúchadh ar feadh i bhfad. Is amhlaidh a bhíodar agus iad ’na gcruachaibh ar muin a chéile agus gan aon rian orthu den áilleacht a bhí orthu nuair a bhíodar ar an saol so, ach iad go dorcha agus go do-aitheanta. I gcás duit nuair a chínn roinnt cnámharlach acu caite i dteannta ’ chéile agus iad go léir chómh cosmhail lena chéile, agus an fhéachaint ghránna choímhtheach acu, agus na fiacla nochtaithe acu, go mbínn dhá fhiafraí dhíom féin conas ’ fhéadfainn Tirsítés gránna d’aithint ó Niréos álainn, nú an bacach Íros ó rí na bhFaeacach, nú Purrias an cócaire ó Agamemnón. Níor lean aon phioc de sna seanadheifríochtaí eatarthu. Bhí a gcnámha go léir mar a chéile gan cómhartha sofheicse, gan teideal scríofa orthu, gan aon chaoi in aon chor ar iad d’aithint óna chéile.

Agus féach; nuair a bhíos féin ag féachaint ar na nithibh sin do samhlaíodh dom gurb ionann beatha an duine ar an saol agus tóichim mhór fhada éigin, agus bandé an Ádha dhá stiúrú agus dhá córú agus ag cur tabhairt amach fé leith ar gach éinne a bhíonn ag imeacht sa tóichim sin. Tógtar duine agus curtar tabhairt amach rí air; éadach ríoga uime; lucht friothálmha ’na thímpall, mionn óir ar a cheann. Tógtar duine eile agus curtar culaith seirbhísigh uime. Curtar bláth áilleachta ar dhuine. Curtar gráinneacht agus míchúmthact ar dhuine eile. Ansan, uaireanta, i lár na tóichime, tagann bandé an Ádha agus deineann sí athrú córach ar chuid den lucht gluaiste. Ní leogann sí dhóibh an tóichim do chríochnú sa riocht ’nar thosnaíodar. Athraíonn sí an t-éadach orthu. Cuireann sí ’ fhéachaint ar Chroésos éadach mogha do chur uime agus gluaiseacht ’na dhaor, agus cuireann sí ’ fhéachaint ar Mhenandrios, a bhí go dtí san ’na dhaor, i measc daor, imeacht agus bheith ’na rí in inead Pholúcratéis agus an t-éadach ríoga do chaitheamh tamall. Ansan, nuair a bhíonn aimsir na tóichime caite tugann gach éinne uaidh pé éadach a bhí uime. Baineann sé dhe idir éadach agus corp agus siúd sa riocht é ’na raibh sé roimis sin, gan deifríocht ar bith idir é agus cách. Ach cuid acu, trí ainbhios, nuair ’ iarrann bandé an ádha orthu an córú a chuir sí orthu do thabhairt thar n-ais di, glacaid siad diomá agus buairt, chómh maith agus gur rudaí éigin leó féin a bheadh ag imeacht uathu agus nách rudaí a tugadh ar iasacht dóibh ar feadh tamaill.

Measaim go bhfeacaís go minic, ar an árdán, an chuid den lucht cleasaíochta ’na mbíonn orthu an léiriú trágach a dhéanamh, conas mar a bhíd siad uaireanta ’na gCréónaibh agus uaireanta ’na bPríamaibh agus uaireanta ’na nAgamemnónaibh, de réir mar a dh’oireann don dráma; agus an cleasaí céanna, tar éis é ’ bheith tamall, go stuama, ’na Checrops nú ’na Erectéos, conas mar a thagann sé amach tamall beag ’na dhiaidh san agus é ’na dhaor, de réir órdú an fhile. Ansan, nuair a bhíonn an dráma críochnaithe baineann gach éinne acu dhe an t-éadach órga agus an t-aghaidh fidil agus tagann sé anuas de sna brógaibh árda, agus ní bhíonn ann feasta ach duine bocht suarach, Pólos mac Cairicléis an Súniensach, nú Sacuros mac Theogítoin ó Mharaton, in inead é ’ bheith in’ Agamemnón mac Atréuis nú ’na Chréón mac Mhenoicéuis. Gnóthaí den tsórd san díreach is ea gnóthaí daoine, de réir mar a samhlaíodh dómhsa an uair úd agus me ag féachaint orthu súd.

Phil. Innis an méid seo dhom, a Mhenippois. Na daoine ’na bhfuil na leachta móra árda costasúla so os a gcionn anso, agus na colamna, agus na híomhátha, agus na scríbhinní, an amhlaidh ná fuil aon onóir á tabhairt dóibh thíos seochas an choitiantacht?

Men. Ach airiú, éist do bhéal, a dhuine! Dá bhfeicfá Mausólos féin, an Cárach adeirim, é siúd ’na bhfuil an cháil go léir air mar gheall ar a thuama, tá ’ fhios agam ná stadfá ach ag gáirí. Bhí sé caite ansúd i gcúinne dhorcha in’ iairlis agus é i bhfolach i measc slóite eile samhal agus gan de thairbhe aige as an dtuama úd ach é ’ bheith in’ ualach anuas air. Óir, nuair a thómhaiseann Aiacos an talamh chun gach duine (agus ní thugann sé ach troigh tailimh do gach éinne), ní foláir don duine é féin do sheargadh agus do chrapadh i dtreó go mbeadh sé beag a dhóthain don méid sin tailimh. Ach measaim go ndéanfá breis gháirí dá bhfeicfá na daoine seo a bhíonn ’na ríthibh agus ’na sátrapaibh anso agus iad ag gluaiseacht ansúd a d’iarraidh déarca, feóil ghuirt acu á dhíol trí mhéid a ndealús, nú iad ag múineadh aibítreach; agus easonóir, nú buille bhais sa leacain, acu dá fháil ó chách, mar a gheóbhadh an daor is dona. Níor fhéadas, go deimhin duit, gan gáire ’ dhéanamh go hárd nuair a chonac an Pilib úd, an Macedónach. Do taispeánadh dom é agus é sáite i gcúinne agus seanabhróga lofa aige á dheisiú ar a phá. Bhí a lán eile acu, leis, le feiscint ar na crosbhóithribh agus iad a d’iarraidh déarca. Bhí Csercsés ann, agus Dareíos, agus Polúcratés.

Phil. Is éagsamhlach na nithe atá agat dá ínsint i dtaobh na ríthe agus is deocair iad do chreidiúint. Ach cad a bhí ag Sócratés á dhéanamh, agus na saoithibh eile?

Men. Tá Sócratés, leis, ansúd agus é ag gabháil tímpall ag áiteamh ar gach éinne, agus tá in éineacht leis Palamédés agus Nestor agus Odusséus, agus gach samhail chainnteach eile. Tá an t-at ’na chosaibh fós ón nimh úd a dh’ól sé. In aice le Sardanapalos an tAssuiriach, agus le Mídas an Phrúgach, agus le roinnt eile de lucht an tslóigh is ea atá Díogenés oirirc, agus bíonn sé ag gáirí nuair ’ airíonn sé iad ag áireamh na maitheasaí a bhí acu roimis seo, agus iad ag gol. Bíonn sé sínte ar a dhrom agus é ag gáirí, agus casann sé amhrán nách róchneasta chun a n-olagón san do mhúchadh orthu. Tá buairt mhór orthu mar gheall air sin. Ní féidir leó cur suas le Díogenés agus táid siad dhá bheartú go raghaid siad chun cónaithe in áit éigin eile.

Phil. ’Sea, ní beag liom díobh san. Ach cad é an dlí é siúd adúraís ar dtúis a deineadh in aghaidh lucht saibhris?

Men. Is maith mar a chuiris i gcuímhne dhom é. Bhíos chun trácht air ach do seóladh ar fán uaidh me ar chuma éigin. An fhaid a bhíos ’na bhfochair thíos d’fhógair na Prútanaigh cruinniú feise chun tairbhe an phobail. Chonac na daoine ag bailiú. Siúd me féin isteach i measc na slóite marbh agus ba gheárr go rabhas ’na dteannta ag an bhfeis. Do deineadh roinnt dlithe ar dtúis ar ghnóthaíbh eile agus ansan do tánathas chun lucht an tsaibhris. Do labhradh ’na gcoinnibh go dian agus do cuireadh mórán drochghníomhartha ’na leith; éigean, eirí in áirde, uabhar, éagóir. Fé dheireadh d’éirigh duine de sna cínnphobail agus do léigh amach reacht den tsórd so:—

An reacht

De bhrí go ndeinid lucht saibhris i gcaitheamh a mbeatha, mórán gníomhartha andleathacha i gcoinnibh na mbocht, ag déanamh foghla orthu, agus ag déanamh éigin orthu agus ag tabhairt tarcaisne dhóibh, tuigtear don tseanaid agus don phobal gur ceart pionós do chur ar a gcorpaibh tar éis bháis dóibh, fé mar a curtar ar chorp gach cuirpigh eile, agus ansan gur ceart a n-anamnacha do chur suas thar n-ais ar an saol agus iad do chur isteach in asalaibh, agus nuair a gheóbhaidh na hasail sin bás, iad do chur isteach in asalaibh eile, agus iad do bheith ar an gcuma san go dtí go mbeidh chúig mhíle blian fó dheich curtha dhíobh acu, agus i gcaitheamh na haimsire sin go léir iad a bheith ag iompar ualaí troma agus daoine bochta dhá gcomáint: ansan neart a bheith dhóibh bás d’fháil.

Cloigeann mac Cnámharlaigh, ó Ghleann na bPúcaí, de shliocht na Mílítheach, is é do chómhairligh an reacht.

Do léadh an reacht. Chuir na cínnphobail fé ghuth an reacht. Do shín na daoine a lámha. Chuir Brimó búirth aisti. Chuir Cerberos uallthairt as. Sin mar a curtar feidhm i ndlithibh ansúd nuair a léitear iad.

Sin agat ar deineadh ag an bhfeis. Ansan d’imíos féin ag triall ar Thíresias ar an dtoisc a thug ann me. D’ínseas mo scéal do tríd síos agus d’iarras air a dh’ínsint dom cad í an bheatha ba dhó’ leis dob fheárr. Do gháir sé. Firín ana-bheag is ea é agus é caoch, mílítheach, caolghuthach. “Is eól dómhsa fáth do mhearathaill, a mhic ó”, ar seisean. “Lucht na heagna ’ bheith bun-os-cionn le na chéile fé ndeár é. Ní dleathach dómhsa, áfach, an cheist sin do réiteach duit. Tá san coiscithe ag Radamantus.”

Faire, faire, a athair bhig!” arsa mise leis, “ná habair é sin. Ná fág me ag caitheamh mo bheatha níos daille ná thu féin!”

Ansan do rug sé leis i leataoibh me, i bhfad ón gcuid eile, agus chrom sé go cneasta chun mo chluaise:—

Is í beatha na ndaoine gan léann”, ar seisean, “an bheatha is feárr agus is eagnaí. Ná bíse ag áiteamh ná ag deimhniúchán ar nithibh doimhne, ná ag iniúchadh agus ag scrúdadh ar thosach agus ar dheireadh na nithe atá. Amadántacht is ea an obair sin. Cuir rómhat an méid seo amháin, an aimsir atá láithreach d’fhriothálamh go maith, ’sé sin, i dtreó go mbeidh sult agus soilbhreas i bhformhór do bheatha agus ná beidh aon rud ag déanamh aon bhuartha dhuit”. Nuair a bhí an méid sin ráite aige do sciúrd sé uaim go machaire an Asphodeil.

Bhí sé ’na thráthnóna um an dtaca san. “Téanam”, arsa mise le Mítróbarsánés. “Níl a thuilleadh gnótha anso againn. Téimís thar n-ais suas chun na beatha”.

Ná bíodh ceist ort, a Mhenippois”, ar seisean liom, “taispeánfadsa cóngar maith réidh suas duit. Féach”, ar seisean, agus thaispeáin sé spré bheag solais dom. “Ansan anuas”, ar seisean, “a thagaid muíntir Bhoiótia. Sin é teampall Trophóniois. Imigh ansan suas agus beidh tú sa Ghréig láithreach”. Siúd suas me. D’fháisceas me féin tríd an bpoll aníos, bíodh gur chúng é, agus seo anso me i Libadéia, pé cuma ’nar thárla.

Acherúsach “Acherusian”, referring to Acherusia, a swamp believed to be connected with the underworld, and later a swamp in the underworld itself.
adhraim, adhradh: “to worship”. Note that IWM gives the pronunciation of the verbal noun as /əi’ru:/, implying that adhraím, adhrú would be more common in Muskerry. GCh has adhraim, adhradh.
aghaidh fidil: “mask”, such as an actor would wear. This is masculine (an t-aghaidh fidil), possibly because the definite article qualifies a noun phrase. Pronounced /əi fʹidʹilʹ/.
aibítir: “alphabet”, with aibítreach in the genitive. Pronounced /a’bʹi:tʹirʹ, a’bʹi:tʹirʹəx/. Aibítre is found in the genitive elsewhere in PUL’s works.
amhrán: “song”; pronounced /ɑvə’rɑ:n/. Amhrán a chasadh, “to sing/strike up a song”.
andleathach: “illegal, unlawful” and thus “unjust”, pronounced /’ɑn-‘dlʹahəx/. The GCh spelling is aindleathach, edited here as andleathach to show the quality of the vowel of the first syllable.
at: “swelling”.
banghaiscíoch: “heroine”.
bláth: “flower”. Bláth áilleachta, “flush of beauty”.
brasaireacht: “flattery, toadying”. Lucht brasaireachta, “flatterers, flunkies”.
buirbe: “fierceness, rudeness”; or boirbe in GCh. Pronounced /birʹibʹi/.
búirth: “roar, bellow”, or búir in GCh.
cabharthach: “helpful”, or cabhrach in GCh. Pronounced /kourhəx/.
caolghuthach: “squeaky voiced”.
Cárach: “Carian”, an inhabitant of Caria, in Anatolia.
ceann-fé: “shame”.
cínnphobail: “leaders, important people”.
cleasaíocht: “games, sports”. Lucht cleasaíochta, “performers”.
cloigeann: “skull”; pronounced /klogʹən/.
cnámharlach: “skeleton”; pronounced /knɑ:rləx/.
coiléar: “collar”, with coiléir in the plural. Pronounced /ki’lʹe:r/.
coir: “crime”, pronounced /kirʹ/.
colann: “body”, or colainn in the dative in GCh. The dative plural is colannaibh: the original spelling here was colanaibh, and consequently this form cannot be given as collaibh.
córaím, córú: “to arrange, dress; to muster (of an army)”, or cóirím, cóiriú in GCh.
costasúil: “costly, sumptuous”, or costasach in GCh.
crapaim, crapadh: “to contract, shrink, draw back”.
creidiúint: “credit, reputation”.
cruachás: “predicament”.
crúca: “crook, hook”.
cúntach: “helpful”.
Cúrénach: “Cyrenian”, an inhabitant of Cyrene, in modern-day Libya.
deimhniúchán: “an act of repeated proving or asserting”.
deireadh: “end”, “rear”. Pronounced /dʹerʹi/.
díbrim, díbirt: “to banish, drive (out)”; or díbrím, díbirt in GCh. Pronounced /dʹi:bʹirʹimʹ, dʹi:bʹirtʹ/.
do-aitheanta: “unrecognisable, hard to recognise”.
dorcha: “dark”, pronounced /dorəxə/.
dreóim, dreó: “to rot away”.
eireaball: “tail”, referring here to the tail end of a cloak.
éirí in áirde: “airs, uppishness”.
Faeacach: “Phoeocian”, an inhabitant of part of ancient Greece.
fathach: “giant”, pronounced /fɑhəx~fə’hɑx/. The form athach is also found in WM Irish.
feidhm: “force, effect”. Pronounced /fʹəimʹ/. Feidhm a chur i ndlí, “to enact a law”.
feis: “convention, assembly”, adjusted from féis in the original.
fínné: “witness”, but also “testimony”.
fíordheallraitheach: “really alike”. Pronounced /fʹi:rʹ-jaurəhəx/. Spelt fíordhealraitheach in GCh.
fó: a by-form of fé, used in multiplication. Fó dheich, “tenfold”.
fógraim, fógairt: “to announce, declare”; or fógraím, fógairt in GCh. Pronounced /fo:gərimʹ, fo:girtʹ/.
folaím, folachadh: “to conceal”; pronounced /fo’li:mʹ, fə’lɑxə/.
folláin: “healthy, wholesome”; pronounced /fə’lɑ:nʹ/.
gráinneacht: “ugliness”, or gránnacht in GCh.
guirt: “salted”, or goirt in GCh. Feóil ghuirt is glossed in FGB as “salt meat”, but translates “herring” here.
gúta: “gout”.
guth: “voice”. Rud do chur fé ghuth, “to put something to a vote”.
iairlis: “worthless person, good for nothing”, or iarlais in GCh.
ioldathach: “multi-coloured”. Pronounced /il-‘dɑhəx/.
iomadúil: “numerous, abundant; pronounced /umə’du:lʹ/.
leacht: “grave, gravemound”, with leachta in the plural here where GCh has leachtanna.
leathdhia: “demigod”, with leathdhéithe in the plural.
léiriú: “production (of a play)”.
leithleach: “state of being apart”, pronounced /lʹehilʹəx/. Ar leithligh, “separate, apart”.
míchúmthacht: “disfigurement”.
muineál: “neck”. CFBB shows this word has a slender m (p272), but PUL always spells it with a broad m, possibly under the influence of the classical orthography.
neambuan: “fleeting, transitory”, or neamhbhuan in GCh. Pronounced /nʹa’muən/.
Phrúgach: “Phrygian”, a native of Phrygia in western Anatolia.
Prútanaigh (na Prútanaigh): “the Prytanes”, officers appointed by the senate.
putharnach: “puffing”, or puthaíl in GCh. This becomes ag putharnaigh when used as a verbal noun in the dative.
reacht: “statute, ordinance, decree”, pronounced /rɑxt/.
riag (?): “scaffold, rack”, with riaganna in the plural. PSD has riagh, but there is no attestion of the singular in WM Irish literature.
riartha: “allocated, arranged, distributed, layed out in order”.
salann: “salt”. Rud do chur ar salann, “to perserve something”, including, here, in the sense of embalming a human after death.
scáil: “shadow”, with scáileanna in the plural.
sciúirse: “scourge”. Sciúirsí géara here stands where “whips” is found in some editions of Lucian.
scréacharnach: “an act of screeching”, a word not found in dictionaries.
scrúdaim/scrúdaím, scrúdadh/scrúdú: “to examine, study”. Both first- and second-conjugation forms are attested in PUL’s works.
seanaid: “senate”, or seanad in GCh.
seargaim, seargadh: “to shrivel, dry up”; pronounced /ʃarəgimʹ, ʃarəgə/.
Siculach: “Sicilian”.
slabhra: “chain”, pronounced /slaurə/.
soilbhreas: “pleasantness, joviality”. Pronounced /solʹivʹirʹəs/.
spré: “spark”. Spré bheag solais, “a gleam of light”.
sraith: “imposition, tax”. Sraitheanna ’ bhailiú, “to collect taxes”.
suí breatha: “judgement seat”, where the genitive of breath (a form of breith) is used.
Súniensach: “an inhabitant of Sunium”, or Cape Sounion in Greece.
te: “hot”. PUL is on record in his NIWU (p127) as insisting this word has a “most distinct” final ‑h in the pronunciation. However, this is likely to be apparent only before a following vowel. Pronunced /tʹe~tʹeh/. The plural is teó.
teideal: “title”.
tine: “fire”, with tínteacha in the plural here. GCh has tinte in the plural.
tóichim: “pageant, procession”.
toisc: “errand, mission”.
tráthnóna: “evening”, pronounced /trɑ:n’ho:nə/.
treabhchas: “tribe”. Pronounced /trʹauxəs/.
truamhéileach: “piteous, plaintive”, or truamhéalach in GCh.
uabhar: “pride”. Pronounced /uər/.
uabhar: “pride”. Pronounced /uər/.
uaisleacht cine: “breeding, blue blood, the station that comes from one’s origins”.
uallthairt: “howl, yell”, or uallfairt in GCh. PUL’s spelling was ulfairt.
úrnua: “fresh”; pronounced /u:r-no:/.

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