Let us imagine that we are foreigners paying our first visit to Ireland just about the time when Christ was preaching in Galilee. What does the land look like as we draw near its coast, borne in our Roman galley propelled by sail and oars? Our first impression is just such an impression as is made on the modern traveller who approaches our shores for the first time. Here is a land of crag and glen, of broad lake and broader plain. Here is a coastline defended at one point by bold granite heights towering to the altitude of two or three thousand feet, at another point by terraces of limestone cliffs rising to a scarcely less dizzy height. Here are blue fjords cutting deep into the heart of the land, and sentinelled on either side by bald or heathy headlands, whose feet are washed by the spray of the sea, while their heads are half buried in clouds. Here are purple mountains carpeted in heath, and furze, and fern. Here are many lakes, long and torturous, filling up the valleys between the heights, or gleaming wide and white on the plains. Here are broad rivers moving across the country and widening into stately estuaries as they reach the sea. Here brown streams rich in trout and salmon; here sombre boglands, the nursery of many flocks of wild birds. At first we are inclined to think that this must be a land of mountains, for except at the Gap of the East—the gap through which in after ages the invader will enter—mountain-group succeeds mountain-group and moorland moorland all around the coast. But we soon see that the island is in reality shaped like a hollow inverted shield: the highlands are all on the coast, and the interior is occupied by an immense plain, across which we may travel a hundred or a hundred and thirty miles without encountering a genuine hill.
As soon as we land we become aware of one fact which sufficiently differentiates the physical Ireland of the first century from the Ireland of the twentieth. Almost the whole of the great central plain and many of the slopes of the outer mountain-rim are still covered by the primeval forest. Bogs there of course are, both among the mountains and on the plain; but vast stretches of country to-day covered by dark blown bogland are in first-century Ireland clothed luxuriantly in a forest mantle of oak, ash, elm, pine, birch, and yew. As we gaze on the dark tracts of forest-land we remember that one of the oldest names of Ireland was ‘Inis na bhFiodhbhadh’—The Island of Woods.
Of animal life in this woodland county there is rich store. The stately Irish elk, which stood twice the height of a tall man, has, indeed, long disappeared, though his huge skeleton is sometimes to be found, as it is to the present day. The bear, too, has gone, and only dim memories of him remain; a strong warrior is still called, ‘mathghamhain,’ the bear, from which honourable designation will come in after centuries the surnames Ó Mathghamhna and Mac Mathghamhna. But the wild boar is still king of the forest, and the wolf still howls in the lonely places. The otter and the badger have not yet retired to the remoter fastnesses. Fierce wild-cats lurk in the woods. The red deer roams the mountainsides and the forest-glades of the lowlands. The fox, the hare, the stoat or so-called weasel, and all our familiar small wild things flourish apace. The kite and the eagle sweep fearlessly over the plains. Of reptiles there are no more trace than in our own day—only the harmless little lizard or arc-luachra, and, amongst amphibia, the common newt and the strange Kerry toad.
We land, not at some busy port, but at a sheltered creek, frequented by fishermen. There are curachs drawn up on the beach, differing nothing in essentials from the curachs we use to-day on our western coasts; the frame-work of wicker (called cliabh-curaigh, or curach-basket), and the covering, not of tarred canvas, but of hide. There are also representatives of another sort of boat, used chiefly, however, for inland navigation. This is a single-piece canoe, flat, and fashioned from the trunk of a single tree.1
We moor our galley, and push on into the heart of the primeval forest. We observe few traces of habitation, and later on we shall see that the population of the country, whilst considerable, consists of communities, small or large, dotted here and there at cleared spaces in the forest. It is obvious that in these days of wild beasts and wilder men, single habitations must be few: men cluster together in village communities,—groups of huts crowding round a strong dwelling in the centre, and guarded by a rath or rampart of earth. Rude roads lead through the forest glades from settlement to settlement.
Striking one of these woodland tracks, somewhat wider and better worn than the others, we conclude that it leads to a settlement of some little importance. As we follow it out, we find that it grows wider and wider; numerous signs of traffic appear; and at last we emerge from the forest depths into a clearing of considerable extent. It is the site of a village.
Let us take a good view of this primitive Irish village which we are approaching. The settlement really consists of the residence of a bó-aire, or well-to-do farmer, with the houses of his dependents clustering round it. The buildings, we notice, are not huddled close together as in a modern town or village: they are detached, and dotted at intervals over the grassy sward. The houses are small structures of wickerwork, thatched with straw, and are for the most part circular in shape. From the groups of houses a series of tillage and pasture-fields stretches away to the outskirts of the forest.
In the centre of the village stands the lios or residence of the bó-aire himself. This consists essentially of a space of ground enclosed by an earthen rampart or rath, and containing within itself a number of wooden buildings. (Properly speaking, the rath is the enclosing rampart, and the lios the space enclosed; but the words have long been used interchangeably). At a little distance from the rath is another area enclosed by a strong rampart: that is the badhun or cow-keep (the word comes from bó and dún into which the cattle are driven for safety at night. This, be it noted, is outside the rath or homestead proper. Approaching the lios itself, we first pass across the faithche or green—a large level sward used chiefly for athletic exercises and the games of the children. It is at the present moment occupied by a noisy troop of youngsters, encumbered only by the very scantiest clothing, who run, jump, tumble, and disport themselves in a thousand fashions—just such a merry group of Irish-speaking children as we should encounter to-day in a village of Connemara or Erris; many things have changed in Ireland, but the children have not changed.
Inside the faithche or green we come to yet another space, an ornamental lawn (called urla) which stretches immediately in front of the door of the rath: this is a sort of pleasure-ground on which the folk promenade when so disposed. We now come to the lios or homestead itself; and we see that the way in which it has been fashioned is this. A deep circular trench is dug, and the earth thrown up on the inside. If water is convenient the trench is flooded for greater security. Within this moat or ditch the earthen embankment rises to a considerable height; it is neatly shaped and faced, and on its summit there is a quick hedge or palisade of hawthorn, hazel, or other trees. In the embankment there is one opening for a gate, and opposite the opening is a bridge across the moat, which is drawn up at night.
I have here described the ordinary type of lios or residence. I have made it circular, as a round or oval shape was generally preferred by the builders of ancient Irish mansions, though square and oblong forts were—and are—to be found. I have also made the embankment of earth, as this was by far the commonest material. But in stony countries, as along the rocky western coast, it was found more convenient to build the outer ramparts of stone. The series of huge stone forts of cyclopean masonry which stretch along the west and south-west coasts, and of which the grandest, not merely in Ireland, but in the world, are those on the islands of Aran, were just such dwellings as I describe; but in all probability they belong to a much earlier date than that with which I am now dealing.
Let us enter the lios or enclosure, passing across the bridge which spans the trench. We notice that the ground inside is somewhat elevated above the level of the plain without. The interior of the enclosure is occupied by a group of buildings similar in general style to those we have seen outside. They are all of wood and wickerwood, with thatches of straw or shingle. They are built in this wise. Let us suppose that the house is to be a circular one, as most houses were. The site having been marked out, a number of long and strong poles, peeled and polished smooth, are driven into the ground, placed at a little distance apart, and enclosing a circular space. The interstices are now filled in with twigs carefully interwoven, so that the whole forms a strong and substantial wall. A house of this sort is called a teach fighte, or woven house. The roof is conical in shape, and is formed of hurdles or wickerwork, thatched, as already said, with straw or shingle.
Let us look round the lios, and gain a general idea of the number and the purpose of the buildings which it contains. The most prominent is naturally the dwelling-house itself, a single-roomed circular structure of the sort I have described. Attached to it, but entered by separate doorways, and having no internal communication with the dwelling-house or with each other, are a number of sleeping-rooms, round or rectangular. Next there is the kitchen, a little behind the dwelling-house, and quite a separate structure from it. (In the primitive Irish house, as afterwards in the primitive Irish monastery, the various rooms, such as dining-room, sleeping-rooms, kitchen, library, etc., instead of being merely apartments of the same building as amongst us, were detached buildings grouped close to one another). Near the kitchen is a kiln for drying corn, and dotted about the enclosure at convenient spots are a barn, a sheep-house, a calf-house, and a pig-house. (These seven buildings are enumerated in the old legal tract called the Crith Gabhlach as the minimum number of buildings in the homestead of a well-to-do farmer of the bó-aire class: a bó-aire was a farmer who rented land from a chief, and whose wealth consisted chiefly in cattle).
As we make our way through the lios we pass a number of the dependents of the bó-aire intent on their several occupations. Let us imagine that it is late in the afternoon, and that preparations are being made for the evening meal. In ancient Ireland the chief meal of the day was taken in the evening. Breakfast was early in the morning, and there was a light luncheon about mid-day, but the principal meal was that taken after the greater part of the day’s work was done. We notice that the lios is full of bustle. The calves and sheep and pigs are being driven into their enclosures for the night. From the lawn without we hear the shouting of the herds as they drive home the cattle. A clatter of vessels resounds from the dairy. Women are passing in laden with bundles of fresh rushes to strew the floor of the house, that honour may be done to the strange guests. We pause to observe the persons and attires of the men and women more closely. The men are splendid specimens of manhood—just such tall, lithe, graceful figures as one sees in Aran or Tory. They are big-boned and sinewy, but without an ounce of spare flesh; broad in the shoulder, thin in the flank, as lithe as greyhounds, as fleet as stags. They can run down the wild boar on foot; they can bear hunger and cold and thirst without complaint; they think naught of a night spent in the open air on a distant mountain-slope, with no covering from the dew or frost save their mantles and their matted hair. Their clothing consists essentially of a short tight-fitting tunic (ionar) and a kilt (ceilt) reaching down to the knee or near it, and displaying the rest of the limb bare. Under the ionar is a shirt (léine). The flowing brat or mantle which they would wear in travelling or on full-dress occasions is thrown aside to allow them greater freedom in their work. Some, however, wear a short cape, furnished with a hood (cochall). The heads are bare, save for their thick covering of hair, which falls down behind on the shoulders and is clipped short in front just above the eyes. Long moustaches clothe their upper lips, and in the majority of cases ample beards float on their bosoms. The feet are, for the most part, bare, but some wear stout brogues, often of untanned hide (cuaroga), like the bróga-úr-leathair of the Aran islanders of to-day.
The women are comely Irish types, differing little, I daresay, from the maids and matrons one meets to-day in an Irish-speaking countryside. Their characteristic garment is a long kirtle extending neatly to the feet. Like the women of our own day, many of them, especially the young girls, prefer to go bare-footed. The married women have their heads covered either with a hood (caille) or with a web of linen wound round it (calladh)—the girls and unmarried women for the most part go bare-headed.
The fact that we are strangers has now been observed, and a lad comes forward to guide us to the presence of the master of the lios. Piloted by him, we thread our way through the busy throng to the door of the dwelling-house. Here we are met by the bó-aire himself, who receives us with that mixture of stately courtesy and kindly good-nature which is still the birthright of the unspoiled Irish Gael. We are conducted within the main apartment, and in the intervals of exchanging civilities with our host, have time to look about us, and note the characteristics of this Irish home of the first century.
1 Numerous specimens, dug ug in bops or found in lakes near crannogues, are preserved in the National Museum.