The dún of the king is a reproduction on a larger and more magnificent scale of the lios of our bó-aire. About the enclosure are dotted the usual wooden buildings,—the cuchtair, the áith, the saball, the lias cáirach, and so on. The tech or dwelling-house proper stands on a raised platform at or near the centre and commands a view of the whole lios. The structure is, of course, of wood, the platform being of earth. It is to the door of this, across the intervening space of the lios, that our guide conducts us. On the threshold we are received by the Rechtaire.
The Rechtaire (he is also called the Taisech Teglaig and the Fer Taigis) is a stately and important-looking officer, habited in a long fleecy mantle, and bearing a wand in token of his authority in the chief’s household. He marshals us to the guest-house (tech n-óiged) and commits us to the charge of two of his subordinates, who carry us off to the customary bath. Duly washed and groomed, we are conducted to the banqueting-hall. In many chiefs’ duns, the main apartment serves at once for living, dining, and even sleeping, but we are imagining that our host is a rí tuaithe1 of considerable wealth and importance. His dún, therefore, boasts a separate banqueting hall, which is, of course, a distinct structure from the dwelling-house proper. It is a large and lofty wooden building, supported on two rows of columns which divide it into three long aisles. In the centre blazes a huge fire, where the cooking is carried on during the meal, the attendants serving from the centre aisle. The walls are handsomely wainscoted, and hung with shields, weapons, and trophies of the chase. At the top of the hall is a raised platform, on which sit the king and queen, with the Druids, Brehons, Poets, and chief nobles. At the bottom is a space for the servants and humbler retainers, who, in accordance with the old, kindly custom, dine in common with their masters. The main body of the hall is occupied by the general body of guests. The seats or couches (called bratrach, npl. -a, but imda is also applied) are ranged around the walls. These are raised, above the level of the floor, and are richly canopied, the canopies being supported on carved pillars of yew, some of which are covered with bronze or silver.
The Rí and his chief guests have already taken their places on the dais. The Rechtaire leads us to the king’s imda, and our host greets us after the Irish fashion by embracing us and thrice kissing us on the cheek. As foreigners, we are assigned a seat of distinction. Meantime the general body of the guests is assembling, marshalled by the Rechtaire. The warriors march in and take their seats, strictly in accordance with their rank, each hanging his shield and arms above his couch on a rack intended for the purpose, which runs along the panelled walls. The women take their seats opposite to the men. Before the meal commences the host rises and formally welcomes his guests. Then all fall to. A babble of conversation arises, men and women joining in freely. Whenever the din grows too great the Rí commands silence by striking a gong which hangs on a pillar before him.
It is scarcely necessary to describe the feast in detail. Each one, building on what has been said with regard to the evening banquet in the humbler homestead of the bó-aire, can fill in the picture for himself. Suffice it to say that many of the table utensils are exceedingly rich,—carved yew, white bronze, silver, gold. The joints are pork (muicc-fheoil), beef, (mairt-fheoil), mutton (caer-fheoil or muilt-fheoil), venison (fiad-fheoil), badger-flesh (broc-fheoil), and the flesh of the togmall—a small animal which O’Curry has (wrongly?) identified with the squirrel—together with wild fowl of various sorts. Numerous pottages concocted from meat and herbs figure in the menu, as well as various preparations from eggs and the other bán-biada. The drinks are ale (lenn), mead (mid), and wine (fion).
The meal over, the remainder of the evening is spent in traditional Irish fashion. The old formula of the seanchaidhes is ‘trian le sgéalaidheacht, trian le ceol, agus trian le suan agus sámh-chodladh.’ The Rí strikes his bell to command silence. A hush falls, to be broken presently by the voice of a Seanchaidhe as he commences the relation of some famous tale of valour or love or sorrow,—mayhap the battle exploits of the Rí himself or his immediate ancestors, mayhap some old legend of the De Danann gods, Lugh and Aonghus and the Daghda Mór, in which piteous human tragedy mingles with dark mysticism as in the Fate of Tuireann’s Children. Next arise the aes ciúil ocus oirfidid—the Court musicians—who rouse us with their gentraige, melt us with their goltraige, and sooth us with their suantraige. Anon perchance the clár fidchilli or chessboard and the brannad2 are drawn forth and the more sedate amongst the company gather round to play or to watch the play of their friends, while the younger folk engage in roth-chless (an indoor as well as an outdoor game). Thus, to use the Irish phrase, we ‘bear out’ the night until the signal comes to retire to rest.
It will be observed that no mention has been made of dancing, and that for the all-sufficient reason that dancing was not a pastime of the ancient Gael. Such at least is the inevitable conclusion from the complete silence of the tales, ample as they are in their descriptions of social life and customs. Where our reels and our jigs have come from it is not for us to say: certain it is that nothing like them—nothing that one could possibly identify with dancing as we know it—appears to have been in vogue in Ireland for centuries after the date of our imaginary visit.3
The rest of our tour may be passed over more rapidly. To give a glimpse of the old Gael at home has been the object of this paper. Of his wars and his commerce, his jurisprudence and his religious rites, we do not speak. There is no picture, however, which we would fain give ere we conclude. It is that of an ancient Irish Aenach or Fair. We are to imagine ourselves on a wide smooth green overlooking the sea. In the harbour ride many foreign vessels, which have borne merchants from Gaul and Greece and Egypt to buy and sell. One portion of the fair-green is occupied by booths, where rich merchandise is displayed for sale, and buying and selling proceed briskly. In another quarter the nobles and freemen are assembled in council, under the presidency of the Rí of the territory. Here laws are deliberated upon, passed, and promulgated. On other days, courts of justice are held, and decisions on legal points given by the Brehons. There horse-racing, chariot-racing, foot-racing, wrestling, and all sorts of manly games are carried on by the young men; in other parts of the field gleemen (crossán) are singing ballads, clowns (fuirseoir or obláire) are making jokes, jugglers (cless amnach) are performing all manner of tricks. A separate enclosure is set apart for the women, and no man is allowed to enter the women’s enclosure, nor is a woman allowed to enter the men’s enclosure. At night the vast assemblage of people, gentle and common, encamp in hastily erected booths, or under the open sky. Order and decorum are strictly maintained. All public and private feuds are in abeyance whilst the Fair lasts, and the penalty for breaking the peace is death. These assemblies are, obviously, of immense service: they bring the people together for legislation, commerce, and amusement; they draw the nobles and the common people into friendly contact; they promote interest in the affairs of the commonwealth, and foster a feeling of brotherhood between the different classes and districts.
Our last night in first-century Ireland shall be spent in one of the great Bruigens or public Hostels. It would not do to leave the shores of the country without having visited so characteristic an institution. The Brugaid or public Hospitaller belongs to the bó-aire class. He is bound to keep open house for the entertainment of all wayfarers. He must maintain roads leading to his Bruigen from all directions, and a light must always burn on his lawn. From such tales as the Destruction of Bruigen Da Derga we are able to construct a singularly complete picture of one of these old Irish inns. Let us imagine that we are approaching one, taking mental notes the while. We observe that the Bruigen has a number of doors—four, six, or seven—always open, and with pathways leading to them from every side. The group of buildings is quite extensive: there is the dwelling-house, with a large structure at the back for servants or sleeping; round this are grouped various outhouses—all, like the dwelling-house, of wood and thatched—a mill, a kiln, a bake-house, cow-houses, sheep-pens, pig-sties. In the court are two immense vats, one for milk, the other for mead or ale. On the lawn stands a huge torch or candle as a beacon to wayfarers. There are, of course, a dairy and numerous store-houses. The floors are strewn with fresh rushes. Within the precincts are several wells of fresh water, or else, as in the case of Bruigen Da Derga, a flowing stream runs through the centre. The buildings are surrounded by gardens in which grow fruit-trees and vegetables. The whole is enclosed by three immense raths, between which stretch grassy lawns where the men promenade and the ladies sit at their embroidery. Strong fighting-men are always on guard at the doors and on the ramparts.
But our time is up. We must bid farewell to Erin (so the old Gaels called their country). Hundreds of years have gone by since the things I have described ceased to be. Our civilisation has met with shipwreck, and from the battered fragments we in our day are attempting to build up anew that noble ark. A blessing on ye, builders!
1 The graduations were rí tuaithe (king or chief of a tuath or cantred); rí mór-tuaithe (king or chief of a territory comprising several tuaths); rí coícid (king of a province); and—later—árd-rí (high king or emperor of all Ireland). It is almost certain that the king of Tara had not been recognised as árd-rí at the period with which we are dealing.
2 On this a game called brannaigheacht, evidently distinct from chess was played.
3 The introduction of dancing at the court of Brian Boirmhe is one of the many anachronisms in An tAthair Peadar’s ‘Niamh.’ His blunder would scarcely have been greater had he introduced Ping-Pong or Bridge.