mountains on its surface, such as there are on the earth. Now, how had the Druids made an observation of this kind? It is of not much consequence whether they had actually seen the lunar mountains or had only imagined them, the curious thing is that they were persuaded that that body was like the earth, and had mountains and other features similar to our own. Plutarch, in his treatise De facie in orbe Lunæ, tells us that, according to the Druids, and conformably to an idea which had long been held in science, the surface of the moon is furrowed with several Mediterraneans, which the Grecian philosophers compare to the Red and Caspian seas. It was also thought that immense abysses were seen, which were supposed to be in communication with the hemisphere that is turned away from the earth. Lastly, the dimensions of this sky-borne country were estimated; (ideas very different to those that were current in Greece): its size and its breadth, says the traveller depicted by the writer, are not at all such as the geometers say, but much larger.
It is through the same author, who is in accordance in this respect with all the bards, that we know that this celestial earth was considered by the theologians of the West as the residence of happy souls. They rose and approached it in proportion as their preparation had been complete, but, in the agitation of the whirlwind, many reached the moon that it would not receive. "The moon repelled a great number, and rejected them by its fluctuations, at the moment they reached it; but those that had better success fixed themselves there for good; their soul is like the flame, which, raising itself in the ether of the moon, as fire raises itself on that of the earth receives force and solidity in the same way that red-hot iron does when plunged into the water."
They thus traced an analogy between the moon and the earth, which they doubtless carried out to its full development, and made the moon an image of what they knew here, picturing there the lunar fields and brooks and breezes and perfumes. What a charm such a belief must have given to the heavens at night. The moon was the place and visible pledge of immortality. On this account it was placed in high position in their religion; the order of all the festivals was arranged after that which was dedicated to it; its presence was sought in all their ceremonies, and its rays were invoked. The Druids are always therefore represented as having the crescent in their hands.
Astronomy and theology being so intimately connected in the spirit of the Druids, we can easily understand that the two studies were brought to the front together in their colleges. From certain points of view we may say that the Druids were nothing more than astronomers. This quality was not less striking to the ancients in them than in the Chaldæans. The observation of the stars was one of their official functions. Cæsar tells us, without entering more into particulars, that they taught many things about the form and dimensions of the earth, the size and arrangements of the different parts of heaven, and the motions of the stars, which includes the greater part of the essential problems of celestial geometry, which we see they had already proposed to themselves. We can see the same fact in the magnificent passage of Taliesin. "I will ask the bards," he says in his Hymn of the World, "and why will not the bards answer me? I will ask of them what sustains the earth, since having no support it does not fall? or if it falls which way does it go? But what can serve for its support? Is the world a great traveller? Although it moves without ceasing, it remains tranquil in its route; and how admirable is that route, seeing that the world moves not in any direction." This suffices to show that the ideas of the Druids on material phenomena were not at all inferior to their conceptions of the destiny of the soul, and that they had scientific views of quite another origin from the Alexandrian Greeks, the Latins, their disciples, or the middle ages. An anecdote of the eighth century furnishes another proof in favour of Druidical science. Every one knows that Virgilius, bishop of Salzburg, was accused of heresy by Boniface before the Pope Zacharias, because he had asserted that there were antipodes. Now Virgilius was educated in one of the learned monasteries of Ireland, which were fed by the Christian bards, who had preserved the scientific traditions of Druidism.
The fundamental alliance between the doctrine of the plurality of worlds and of the eternity of the soul is perhaps the most memorable character in the thoughts of this ancient race. The death upon earth was for them only a psychological and astronomical fact, not more grave than that which happened to the moon when it was eclipsed, nor the fall of the verdant clothing of the oak under the breath of the autumnal breeze. We see these conceptions and manners, at first sight so extraordinary, clothe themselves with a simple and natural aspect. The Druids were so convinced of the future life in the stars, that they used to lend money to be repaid in the other world. Such a custom must have made a profound impression on the minds of those who daily practised it. Pomponius Mela and Valerius Maximus both tell us of this custom. The latter says, "After having left Marseilles I found that ancient custom of the Gauls still in force, namely, of lending one another money to be paid back in the infernal regions, for they are persuaded that the souls of men are immortal."
In passing to the other world they lost neither their personality, their memory, nor their friends; they there re-encountered the business, the laws, the magistrates of this world. They had capitals and everything the same as here. They gave one another rendezvous as emigrants might who were going to America. This superstition, so laudable as far as it had the effect of pressing on the minds of men the firm sentiment of immortality, led them to burn, along with the dead, all the objects which had been dear to them, or of which they thought they might still wish to make use. "The Gauls," says Pomponius Mela, "burn and bury with the dead that which had belonged to the living."
They had another custom prompted by the same spirit, but far more touching. When any one bade farewell to the earth, each one charged him to take letters to his absent friends, who should receive him on his arrival and doubtless load him with questions as to things below. It is to Diodorus that we owe the preservation of the remembrance of this custom. "At their funerals," he says, "they place letters with the dead which are written to those already dead by their parents, so that they may be read by them." They followed the soul in thought in its passage to the other planets, and the survivors often regretted that they could not accomplish the voyage in their company; sometimes, indeed, they could not resist the temptation. "There are some," says Mela, "who burn themselves with their friends in order that they may continue to live together." They entertained another idea also, which led even to worse practices than this, namely, that death was a sort of recruiting that was commanded by the laws of the universe for the sustenance of the army of existences. In certain cases they would replace one death by another. Posidonius, who visited Gaul at an epoch when it had not been broken up, and who knew it far better than Cæsar, has left us some very curious information on this subject. If a man felt himself seriously warned by his disease that he must hold himself in readiness for departure, but who, nevertheless, had, for the moment, some important business on hand, or the needs of his family chained him to this life, or even that death was disagreeable to him; if no member of his family or his clients were willing to offer himself instead, he looked out for a substitute; such a one would soon arrive accompanied by a troop of friends, and stipulating for his price a certain sum of money, he distributed it himself as remembrances among his companions,—often even he would only ask for a barrel of wine. Then they would erect a stage, improvise a sort of festival, and finally, after the banquet was over, our hero would lie down on the shield, and driving a sword into his bosom, would take his departure for the other world.
Such a custom, indeed, shows anything but what we should rightly call civilization, however admirable may have been their opinions; but it receives its only palliation from the fact that their indifference to death did not arise from their undervaluing life here, but that they had so firm a belief in the existence and the happiness of a life hereafter.
That these beliefs were not separated from their astronomical ideas is seen from the fact that they peopled the firmament with the departed. The Milky Way was called the town of Gwyon (Coër or Ker Gwydion, Ker in Breton, Caer in Gaulish, Kohair in Gaelic); certain bardic legends gave to Gwyon as father a genius called Don, who resides in the constellation of Cassiopeia, and who figures
