We had an object in electing to make our first visit to the house of a bó-aire or well-to-do farmer rather than to the hovel of a peasant on the one hand or to the dún of a chief on the other. The house of the bó-aire may be taken as typical of the Irish residence of the first century. In the dún of a chief we should have found more magnificence, more luxury, more culture; but the main lines of the picture would have remained. In the hovel of a herdsman or fisherman we should, of course, have been prepared for a considerably less degree of comfort. We should have marked without surprise the absence of the grianán and of separate sleeping apartments. The whole family would have lived and slept together—skins and rough mattresses stretched on the floor replacing beds; no tables or chairs would have been used, the meals being partaken of from the floor. But we may be sure that an Irish herdsman or fisherman of the first century would have received us with just such a dignity and courtesy as would his Irish-speaking descendant of to-day.
I trust that it will not be thought that in the descriptions I have given, and am about to give, I am in any way idealising the picture. I can quote chapter and verse for my every statement. It must be remembered that the very considerable meed of culture which we have seen in the house of our bó-aire, and which, in a still greater degree, we shall have an opportunity of seeing in the house of our bó-aire’s chief, to whom we are about to pay a visit—it must be remembered, I say that this culture, generous and gracious though it was, was not incompatible with a certain measure of what may be called healthy primitiveness. The old world was in many ways less squeamish than the modern world, and, in so far as it was, the old world was undoubtedly a better and an honester world. The plainness of speech which would have characterised the conversation of an Irish fireside group two thousand years ago would, I daresay, shock a modern goody-goody—but then we have modern goody-goodies who are shocked, or pretend to be shocked, at the plainness of speech of the average Irish speaker, in his conversation no less than in his folk-tales and folk-songs. The plainness of speech of the old Gael was simply the reflection of a certain simplicity in his life. Our ancestors never committed that cardinal sin against decency of considering the human body an unclean thing, always to be hidden away carefully from sight. They never encased their limbs in cumbrous and inartistic clothes. The feet and legs and arms of men were commonly bare, as were the feet and arms and necks of women. Young children wore little or no clothing. A cultured Gael of the days of Meadhbh would no more have been shocked at the sight of a nude child or a nude young lad, or a nude athlete or warrior, than would a cultured Greek of the days of Socrates, or a cultured Hindoo of our own days. It is expressly stated that the Red Branch heroes, like the Homeric heroes, often went nude into battle. Men frequently took their baths in the common apartment in the presence of the household. Without going so far as to recommend a return to the primitive simplicity, we may note that horror of comely nakedness is modern, mainly British, and almost entirely Pecksniffian.
It need hardly be said that the old Gael, like many Irish speakers of the present day, slept nude. This was the custom of all Europe down to comparatively recent times. In England it subsisted in Anglo-Saxon days, seems to have disappeared some time after the Norman Conquest, but had been restored before the reign of Elizabeth.
To resume our narrative. Whilst we are the guests of the bó-aire, we have ample opportunity of observing the daily life of the little community which clusters round his house. We can sit on the faithche and watch the children at their games; we can stroll from the faithche to the badhun, or, entering the lios, examine in turn the kitchen (cuchtair), the corn-kiln (dith), the barn (saball)—which, we note, unlike the other buildings, is oblong in shape; the sheep-house (lias cáirach), the calf-house (lias larg), and the pig-house (muccál). We can watch the dependants of the bó-aire as they go about their several avocations—the men, muscular yet lithe, sallying forth to the fields or to the chase; the women and girls, bright haired and bright-faced, with perfect complexions and teeth, with neck, arms, and feet which might put the masterpieces of Greek sculpture to shame, busied in the dairy or in the kitchen—talkative and sprightly, we may be sure, yet winsome and modest (these are the characteristics which seanchaidhes hand us down of the Irish maids and matrons of the early centuries). Life is simple, and has few complications in this old Irish village. The village-folk till the little patch of ground which they have rescued from the forest; they herd cattle, sheep, swine; they rear bees; they dry their corn in their kiln, they grind it in their mill, they bake it in their ovens; they fashion their spears of the ash that grows in the wild-wood, they twist their shields from the osiers and cover them with the hides of their cattle. They build their own houses. The nimble fingers of the women fashion clothes for their husbands and sons,—card, spin, weave, die, embroider. Periodically, a great event occurs to break the daily routine: men and matrons, youth and maidens, go off to the great Aenach or Fair held by the local chief,—the men to join in council, the youths to engage in warlike exercises, the women to make purchases, to admire and be admired. Often, too,—oftener than is good, perhaps,—the chief summons them to war, and the men, bearing spear and sword, sally out to raid a neighbouring chief or to defend their own frontiers. Then no one is left behind in the village but anxious women at their spinning, and the children tumbling on the green.
Having spent a few days in quiet observation of this rustic life, we determine to push on to a wider field of inquiry where we shall, perchance, meet folk more famous and distinguished, though scarcely more kindly. Let us suppose that, hearing from our host that the residence of the chief or king of the district is only a short day’s journey distant, we decide to proceed thither to pay him our respects. Rising shortly after daybreak—your ancient Gael of all classes was an early riser—we prepare for the journey. Journeys in olden Ireland were usually performed on foot, especially, of course, in the case of the poorer folk. But wealthier people rode in chariots, and our host willingly places his at our disposal. The Irish chariot (carpat) was of various forms and materials. Ours, like the majority, consists of a body (crét) of wickerwork, supported on an outer frame of strong wooden bars. It has two spoked wheels (droch or rath) shod with iron (rotha iarnaidi). There are two shafts (fertas, pl. fertse) of hard holly-wood, and the chariot is drawn by two horses, between which runs a pole called a sithbe. (Usually, however, the chariots of private persons, as distinguished from warriors, were drawn by oxen,—you will remember the case of St. Patrick.) There is room in the vehicle for two persons a seat being provided for the master or mistress, and a lower one (commonly on the right) for the charioteer (ara). Over the chariot is an awning or canopy (pupal) supported on poles.
We start on our journey, and proceed over the rough road at a pace which—our car being without springs—makes travelling more exciting than comfortable. Our charioteer, a lad of the bó-aire’s people, shortens the road in true Irish fashion by a tale.
Arrived at length at the dún of the king, we find that in general plan it does not differ materially from the homestead we have left. It is, of course, much larger and more magnificent. The faithche is more spacious, and so is the ornamental lawn before the door; also we catch a glimpse of a picturesque orchard (uballgort), stocked with goodly fruit-trees. Instead of the single rampart which enclosed the dwelling of our host of last night, this dún—for dún is properly the name of a lios which belongs to a king—has a triple earthen rampart, with a triple trench; moreover, outside the outermost earthen rampart is a strong wooden palisade called a sonnach, enclosing a very considerable area.1
On the faithche or green—which, by the way, is outside the sonnach—the boy-troop (macrad) of the dún is engaged in sport. This merry band consists of the sons and foster-sons of the chief, with mayhap the sons of minor chiefs held here as hostages for their fathers’ fidelity. The boys have a very happy time of it. They are taught to swim, and to perform various feats in the water; to run, jump, wrestle, drive, ride, and use their weapons. Their whole education, the superintendence of which forms one of the most important duties of the chief2 is directed towards making them strong and clever,—brave and patient in war, gentle and courteous in peace. As we pass across the faithche we pause to watch their sports. A hurling match (immán) is in progress,—this is their favourite game. Another group is engaged at what is called the ‘hole game’; each boy on one side has a ball which he endeavours to strike into a hole, while the opposite side tries to prevent him. The cluiche lúibe ocus liathróidi (‘loop and ball game’) has its votaries in a corner of the field; and a fourth group is interested in the roth-chless or ‘wheel-feat,’—a kind of quoit-throwing. Other games they have, somewhat rougher, such as trying to upset one another and trying to tear off one another’s clothes. This last was a favourite pastime amongst the boys of the Red Branch at Eamhain Macha; and we recall that Cuchulainn when a little lad was so good at this particular game that whereas the others could not as much as unloose the brooch which fastened his brat, he was able to tear off not merely the cloaks and tunics but the kilts of any three! I think the training of boys in ancient Ireland was on an entirely sensible plain, and if we are to trust the old tales—which in such matters we certainly may—their life must have been a very happy one. As we stand to watch the macerad of the dún we are about to visit, we cannot help observing what fine, comely little fellows they are; the glow of health on their cheeks, the flash of glee in their eyes, their heads bare and their locks braided or floating loose behind them. How sturdy they are, how straight and true of limb, how quick of eye, foot, and hand,—truly the makings of strong, brave men.
We pick our way through the noisy, merry troop, and one of them, noticing that we are strangers, runs and modestly offers to conduct us to the guest-house. Piloted by him, we enter the dún, passing across the triple rampart, and are presently received by the Rechtaire or Major Domo of the palace.
1 In addition there would often be a chevaux de frise of stones to prevent a rush of an attacking force. The great chevaux de frise which protected Dun Aonghusa in Aran, on the land side of the cliff, still stands.
2 Conchubhar mac Neasa is said to have spent one-third of his spare time in superintending the education of the Macrad of Eamhain Macha.