Library Archives - Page 4 of 9 - Royal Irish Academy

Long before I came to work in the library of the Royal Irish Academy, I was a registered reader there. I was able to visit on my mid-week half-days off from the library in which I then worked. My 1980s visits were to the same early Victorian Reading Room in use today, though I recall worn linoleum on the floor, wooden stands for the manuscripts and minimal heating. Some things have changed.

A recent invitation to speak at an event organised as part of the Lurgan Townscape Heritage scheme (a project of Armagh City, Banbridge and Craigavon Borough Council) has reminded me that among the Academy manuscripts that were relevant to my research in the mid-1980s were those for which a link could be established back to Arthur Brownlow (d.1710), landlord of Lurgan, County Armagh, in the late seventeenth century.

At the time, this was a spin-off from my husband’s work on editing Arthur Brownlow’s lease book, preserved in Armagh County Museum. In the way that one historical puzzle always seems to lead to another, we became interested in researching every aspect of Brownlow’s background. The research led to one of many joint articles we have published since then.

Arthur Brownlow had come to the attention of the Welsh antiquary, Edward Lhuyd (1660–1709), during his visit to Ireland in 1699/1700. Lhuyd was collecting manuscripts to assist in his study of Celtic languages, and purchased some twenty or thirty Irish manuscripts while in Ireland. Among those who sold manuscripts to him was Eoin Ó Gnímh in County Antrim, a descendant of a family of professional Gaelic poets. The Welshman also went to Fenagh, in County Leitrim, where he met with Tadhg Ó Rodaighe, who had a collection of twenty law manuscripts but was not prepared to sell.

Rather more surprising is that Edward Lhuyd also visited Arthur Brownlow, a man of settler origin in Lurgan, County Armagh. Lhuyd must have been told that a visit to Lurgan would give him the opportunity to see some Irish manuscripts, so Brownlow must have enjoyed a reputation as a collector.

It transpired that Arthur Brownlow had at least twelve Irish manuscripts. He also had some in Latin that Lhuyd was less concerned to describe. It was not a large collection but twelve Irish manuscripts as compared with Tadhg Ó Rodaighe’s twenty was still impressive. Just like Ó Rodaighe in Leitrim, Brownlow did not sell his Irish manuscripts to Lhuyd. Their value to him was not a monetary value.

Edward Lhuyd’s catalogue of Brownlow’s Irish language manuscripts was published in 1707. Excluded from Lhuyd’s list, probably because it was in Latin rather than Irish, was an early ninth-century vellum manuscript now known as the Book of Armagh. This was a Gospel book, roughly contemporary with the more famous Book of Kells. In addition to New Testament texts, the Book of Armagh also contains material dating from the seventh century relating to St Patrick, and these were later used to assert the primacy of Armagh. Brownlow was probably interested in the manuscript primarily because of its local association with Armagh. The Brownlow family retained the Book of Armagh until 1853 when they sold it to William Reeves. He passed it to John George Beresford, archbishop of Armagh, who presented it to Trinity College, Dublin, in 1854 (TCD, MS 52).

Title page of Edward Lhuyd’s Archaeologia Britannica (1707).

Brownlow owned a copy of Geoffrey Keating’s manuscript history of Ireland, known as Foras feasa ar Éirinn. Although translations into English and Latin were in circulation in manuscript in Brownlow’s lifetime, Brownlow chose to acquire an Irish language copy. None of the copies preserved in modern archives, however, has been positively identified as the one he owned. In 1696 he may have permitted another Lurgan resident, Patrick Logan, to have a copy made (now National Library of Scotland, Advocates MS 33/4/11). Patrick Logan was a Quaker schoolmaster, originally from mid-Lothian, and although he could not read Irish he had a particular interest in the history of the early kingdoms of Ireland and Scotland.

Brownlow also owned a transcript of the Book of Invasions, Leabhar Gabhála Éireann, as revised in 1631 by a Franciscan historian, Mícheál Ó Cléirigh, at Lisgoole, County Fermanagh. This was a medieval legend of the peopling of Ireland, describing the successive waves of settlers that had come to the island of Ireland in prehistoric times. In Brownlow’s day, it would have still been regarded as largely historical rather than mythical. The seventeenth-century copy that he owned has not been identified.

Edward Lhuyd’s list of Brownlow’s Irish manuscripts also mentioned:

‘A copy of the Leabhar Eghonagh, or a treatise of the reigns of the family of the O Neilles…; three books of miscellanies containing several ancient poems or Dáns and some fragments of history and chronology; Cath Mhuileana … a Romance; Buille Shuibhne, or Suibhne’s distraction. A Romance; Comhrac Fhirdhia 7 Cconluinn or the Conflict of Ferdia and Conlin. A Romance; Cath Comhair, Cath Gabhra, Cath Code, Cath Atha Bo, Cath Ollarba, Battles fought by the Fion Erion or ancient Militia of Ireland, under Fion Mac Cual their great Commander’.

The Leabhar Eoghanach contains historical material, principally genealogical, on the O’Neills of Ulster, and traces their story back to their ancestor Niall of the Nine hostages reputed to have lived in the fifth century AD. The O’Neills had once occupied the lands which the Brownlow family acquired in County Armagh, and thus the Leabhar Eoghanach shed light on the kind of society that had existed in Armagh in earlier times, and helped explain the ongoing esteem in which the descendants of the O’Neills were held down to the late seventeenth century.

Opening of ‘An Leabhar Eoghanach’ a tract on the O’Neills in Leabhar Cloinne Aodha Buidhe. RIA, MS 24 P 33, p. 101.

Two transcripts of this text survive in a manuscript associated with the O’Neills of Clandeboy, now RIA, MS 24 P 33. It has been published in the Irish Manuscript Commission’s edition of Leabhar Cloinne Aodha Buidhe (Dublin, 1931), pp 1–40. The manuscript has an inscription in Irish in Arthur Brownlow’s own hand (p. 25), indicating his ownership on 1 August 1689:

‘Ag so leabhar Artuir Bhrounló nó Mach Ar[tuir] an céud lá do mhí na Lughnasa an bhliaghain … 1689’.

Arthur Brownlow’s Irish signature, 1689, in Leabhar Cloinne Aodha Buidhe. RIA, MS 24 P 33, p. 25.

The same composite manuscript contains a significant collection of praise poetry in Irish, addressed to various Ulster chiefs. Most prominent among them were Arthur Brownlow’s neighbours, the O’Neills of Clandeboy.

Another book of miscellanies in the Royal Irish Academy has the name William Brownlow on the second page (probably Arthur’s son rather than his grandfather). This manuscript, now RIA, MS 24 P 13, was written in 1621 by Luan Taidg for Niall Ó Cionga (King). It contains poetry, a genealogical tract, a list of kings, and a corrupt version of the medieval place-lore text known as the Dinnsheanchas. The ‘very ancient treatise of geography’ as listed by Edward Lhuyd was probably a version of the Dinnsheanchas, and might be the copy found in this manuscript. Likewise, the ‘treatise of monarchs of the world’ might possibly be the list of kings also noted in the same manuscript.

Signature of William Brownlow from RIA, MS 24 P 13.

In the late nineteenth century these two composite manuscripts dating from the seventeenth century and formerly owned by the Brownlow family came into the possession of Maxwell Close, a Church of England clergyman based in Ireland. Revd Close then sold them to William Reeves, church of Ireland bishop of Down, Connor & Dromore, and former keeper of the Armagh Public Library, now known as the Robinson library.

The two manuscripts, now with the shelfmarks 24 P 33 and 24 P 13, were part of the Reeves collection purchased at auction in 1892 by the Royal Irish Academy. William Reeves was President of the Academy at the time of his death in January 1892. William Reeves took an interest in the Brownlow connection, and he copied Edward Lhuyd’s list of Brownlow’s manuscripts into the first page of Leabhar Cloinne Aodha Buidhe.

Arthur Brownlow also had copies of specific Irish tales, and some were not just chance acquisitions. He commissioned a copy of the tale known as Cath Maighe Léna (The Battle of Magh Leana) in 1685, and paid Padraig Mac Óghanain to transcribe it. The manuscript he commissioned is now RIA, MS 24 L 36, as a scribal note on the first page indicates. It was purchased by the Academy along with other items in 1869 from John O’Daly, a Dublin-based book dealer and editor.

The tale of the battle of Magh Leana mainly relates to south Munster in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, but it involved the triumph of Conn Céad Cathach over his rival Eoghan, the battle between Leath Cuinn and Leath Mogha, the northern and southern halves of Ireland, resulting in the triumph of the northerners. Such a story of northern success apparently appealed to Brownlow.

It is said that in the year 1700, Arthur Brownlow transcribed and translated an elegy on Eoghan Ruadh Ó Neill for his collection. The poem, entitled ‘Do chaill Éire a céile fírcheart’ [Ireland has lost its rightful spouse], had been composed by Fr Cathal (Tomás) Mac Ruaidhrí in the mid-seventeenth century. Versions of the English translation attributed to Brownlow are preserved in RIA, MSS 23 D 16 and 24 E 26.

Eoghan Ruadh Ó Neill had been an important military leader in the 1640s in Ireland, and died in 1649. His former territory was later occupied by Brownlow, and most of his military campaigns had been fought within a few miles of Brownlow’s property. Brownlow was interested in such people from the past, and he may have regarded Eoghan Ruadh as another local historical hero.

Even though Brownlow’s collection of Irish manuscripts was of modest proportions, it seems that he had acquired some of those highlighted here with a specific interest in mind. He assembled a collection of sources that would facilitate his study of the place in which he lived and the peoples who had lived there in the past and the stories that had been told about that place from time immemorial.

Those stories, and the lives of those peoples, were available in Irish only, the traditional language of that region. Arthur Brownlow, whose family were newcomers in County Armagh, embarked on a study of the language and the literature that would help him to become immersed in the ancient and modern history of the place he called home.

The afterlife of manuscripts – the uses to which they are put, and the myriad ways in which they change hands after they leave the hands of their scribes and first patrons – can become a large part of their story. The questions asked about those manuscripts change over time, so that the story of their owners can be of as much interest as the texts they contained. Brownlow’s attitude to the manuscripts he purchased or commissioned differed from that of William Reeves to those same manuscripts. The questions of interest to modern researchers are not necessarily those that would have interested either Brownlow or Reeves.

While some of the Irish manuscripts Arthur Brownlow owned in 1699 can no longer be identified, it is a testimony to the work of later collectors, not least those associated with the Royal Irish Academy in the nineteenth century, that enough had been preserved to make the visits of a young researcher to the Academy library in the 1980s seem worthwhile.

Bernadette Cunningham
Deputy Librarian

Further reading

Cunningham, Bernadette & Gillespie, Raymond, ‘An Ulster settler and his Irish manuscripts’, Éigse: Journal of Irish Studies, 21 (1986), 27–36

Cunningham, Bernadette & Gillespie, Raymond, ‘Patrick Logan and Foras feasa ar Éirinn, 1696’, Éigse: Journal of Irish Studies, 32 (2000), 146–52

Gillespie, Raymond (ed.), Settlement and survival on an Ulster estate: the Brownlow leasebook, 1667–1711 (Belfast: Public Record Office of Northern Ireland, 1988)

Gwynn, John (ed.), Liber Ardmachanus: the Book of Armagh (Dublin, 1913)

Lhuyd, Edward, Archaeologia Britannica: an account of the languages, histories and customs of the original inhabitants of Great Britain, vol. 1. Glossography (Oxford, 1707; reprint Shannon, 1970) (archive.org)

Macalister, R.A.S. & Mac Neill, John (eds), Leabhar Gabhála: the book of conquests of Ireland. the recension of Micheál Ó Cléirigh (Dublin, 1916)

Ó Buachalla, Breandán, ‘Arthur Brownlow: a gentleman more curious than ordinary’, Ulster Local Studies, 7:2 (1982), pp 24–8

Ó Donnchadha, Tadhg (ed.), Leabhar Cloinne Aodha Buidhe (Dublin: Irish Manuscripts Commission, 1931)

RIA, MS 67 E 4: Case catalogue of MSS in the Royal Irish Academy and lists of the Reeves and Gavan Duffy collections in the Royal Irish Academy

RIA, MS 24 P 33 (Leabhar Cloinne Aodha Buidhe): digital version available: isos.dias.ie

Trinity College, Dublin, MS 52 (Book of Armagh): digital version available. digitalcollections.tcd.ie

confessio.ie

irishhistoryonline.ie

One of the most beautiful treasures in the RIA Library is MS 12 R 31, a highly illuminated medieval Book of Hours, for Sarum Use, produced in Rouen in the mid-15th century. The book features twenty-eight miniatures most of which were produced by the ‘Hoo Master’ with the exception of St Hildevert which was executed by the ‘Talbot Master’. In contrast, MS 12 R 35 is a late 14th century or early 15th century Augustinian missal of Italian provenance with considerably less decoration but with several brightly illustrated initial letters, pen-flourishing and rubrication throughout. These two medieval texts provide an opportunity for codicological analysis and comparison. Codicology is a holistic approach to the study of books and manuscripts and is concerned with describing the book as a physical object or artefact, considering attributes like binding, format, decoration, and illustration. This blog post will provide a brief codicological analysis of two medieval manuscripts in Academy collections.

RIA MS 12 R 31, f.40. St Christopher.

RIA MS 12 R 35, December Calendar.

Binding

The term ‘never judge a book by its cover’ is certainly apt when it comes to the study of medieval manuscripts, many of which do not survive in their original bindings. This is certainly the case with the manuscripts 12 R 31 and 12 R 35, the former of which is bound in red morroco (possibly goatskin) on four raised bands with extensive blind and gold tooling and red ribbon bookmarks. The binding is likely from the fourth quarter of the sixteenth century, but the curled patterned marbled endpapers were probably added in the eighteenth century. The final parchment leaf exhibits staining caused by the leather turn-ins of a previous binding when it probably acted as a pastedown or inner lining. In contrast MS 12 R 35 was expertly repaired and rebound by A.G. Cains in 1982 and its 19th century binding was replaced with white tawed sheep skin.

RIA MS 12 R 31, binding.

Provenance

The label on the inside cover of MS 12 R 35, suggests that it once belonged to the great antiquarian S.I. Milligan, MRIA before it was presented to the Academy Library in 1981 by Mrs A. Murnaghan on behalf of her late husband, James A. Murnaghan. MS 12 R 31 was likely commissioned by Thomas, Lord Hoo, Chancellor of Normandy and France, as a wedding present for his bride, Eleanor Welles. Portraits of Lord and Lady Hoo as well as heraldic devices feature in the text. A note on the flyleaf suggests that the manuscript once belonged to the Lindores family in Scotland. It was reputedly inherited by John de la Pole who subsequently gifted it to Mary Queen of Scots. It was presented to the Academy in 1874 by H.A. Forbes.

RIA MS 12 R 31, inscription on flysheet.

MS 12 R 31 points to a tri-lingual society in which Latin, French, and English were used while MS 12 R 35 is exclusively in Latin. The layout of text, illustrations, and other elements on the page, otherwise known as the mise-en-page, provides a further opportunity to compare these manuscripts. MS 12 R 31 contains text in a single column while MS 12 R 35 has two columns per page. Collation, or the arrangement of quires or gatherings in a codex, can also provide us with clues regarding the text. MS 12 R 35 contains catchwords which help to put the gatherings in sequential order. The quality and condition of the parchment also differs between the manuscripts. The membrane used to produce MS 12 R 35 is of a poorer quality than that of 12 R 31 and exhibits tears repaired through sewing.

RIA MS 12 R 35.

Decoration

MS 12 R 31 contains twenty-eight illuminated miniatures, each one encased in a gilded frame surrounded by a foliate border often containing strawberries, a symbol of the Virgin Mary. Calendar entries appear in gold, red, and blue and the text is surrounded by a three-sided gold frame throughout. Decorated initial letters serve as text dividers and ornate bars act as line fillers in the text. The pages of MS 12 R 31 have been ruled in red ink and seventeen prick marks in the outer margins have been used to draw sixteen lines of text. The ruling in MS 12 R 35 is perhaps more functional and the pages were lined with lead point, although red ink has been used to underline portions of the text as well as the four stave-lines for musical notation.

Conclusion

Attributes like bindings, decoration, collation, and illustration provide valuable information on the production and usage of historical texts. By comparing two medieval texts in Academy collections, we can see the importance of a codicological approach to manuscript studies.

Barbara McCormack
Academy Librarian

Main image: RIA MS 12 R 31, f.43v. St. Katherine.

For more images and information on the Book of Hours, MS 12 R 31, take a look at our Twitter thread from Decemer 2020.

Communication

Do you remember the last time you wrote a letter?

For the theme of communication we looked at one of our largest archive collections, manuscript Ordnance Survey Letters comprising correspondence between John O’Donovan (1806-1861) and other researchers employed on the survey and OS head office staff. The letters reflect the depth and breadth of this extraordinary survey of pre-famine Ireland. Earlier this year we created an interactive story map exhibition on the OS Letters for Dublin, take a look.

Ordnance Survey Letters.

The Library holds other correspondence by John O’Donovan, including this letter to Patrick O’Donovan. Looks like Patrick was a little careless with a candle while reading it!

Letter to Patrick Donovan, from John O’Donovan. (RIA MS 4 B 54/XXV).

Home

We have all been spending a lot of time at home this year. For this theme we delved into our antiquarian drawings collections. Here is a drawing of the home in which Laurence Sterne was born, Main Street, Clonmel, Co. Tipperary. Drawing by George Du Noyer, 1840.

Home in which Laurence Sterne was born, Main Street, Clonmel, Co. Tipperary. Drawing by George Du Noyer, 1840. (RIA MS 12 T 4/160).

This drawing by John Stokes in 1834, from the Ordnance Survey Memoir collection, depicts the home of Shane Crosach the robber, from an adjacent standing stone, in Carnanreagh, Upper Cumber.

‘View of the home of Shane Crosach the robber, from an adjacent standing stone, in Carnanreagh, Upper Cumber.’ Drawing by John Stokes, 1834. (OS Memoirs, Box 36, VIII).

This attractive watercolour of “Jemmy the gun’s” house, Srahnamanragh, Ballycroy, Co. Mayo by Henry Dryden, 1854. Unfortunately, we don’t have any information on “Jemmy the Gun”, if anybody has details, please get in touch.

“Jemmy the gun’s” house, Srahnamanragh, Ballycroy, Co. Mayo by Henry Dryden, 1854. (RIA 3 C 3/16).

One of the most popular images we posted during the campaign was this photograph by Robert Welch, titled ‘Bringing home the turf,’ This photo is part of the Robert Lloyd Praeger collection.

Bringing home the turf, Rosapenna, Co. Donegal (RW 2278). Praeger Collection.

Plans

It has been difficult to make plans this year!
For the theme of plans we decided on this neat little plan of the Academy Museum pre-1890, before the artefacts were transferred to the National Museum. The plan shows the visitor flow from the Gallery (now the Reading Room) to the Strong Room (now called the Gold Room).

Plan of the Academy Museum, pre-1890.

The Library holds a collection of architectural drawings relating to proposed work at Kilkea Castle, Co. Kildare, 1849-50 executed by William Deane Butler for the Duke of Leinster. These drawings have been digitised and are available to view on our online catalogue.

Architectural drawing relating to proposed work at Kilkea Castle, Co. Kildare, 1849-50 executed by William Deane Butler for the Duke of Leinster. (RIA MS 12 Y 22/1)

Education

As an academic research library, we had a lot to choose from for the theme of education. We decided to focus on the School of a Irish Learning. The School was established in 1903 by the German scholar Kuno Meyer, with the intention of promoting Irish studies in Ireland. The School also instituted the scholarly journal Ériu, which since 1926 has been published by the Royal Irish Academy and remains one of the leading journals in the field of Celtic Studies. The School became incorporated into the Royal Irish Academy in 1925, they endeavoured to continue and maintain the School’s publications in print, arranging for new editions as appropriate. The Governors and Trustees of the School met for the last time on 28 April, 1926. The archives of the School of Irish Learning were donated to the Royal Irish Academy in a motion proposed by E.J. Gwynn to pass on the documentary heritage of the School to the Royal Irish Academy, namely material deemed ‘worthy of being thus preserved’ (Minutes of the School of Irish Learning, 1904-1926, meeting dated 28 April, 1926).

Group photo of students and teachers at the School of Irish Learning, 1911. (Photo Series 6/Box 2).

We posted an interesting image of the Roll Book of the Stephen’s Green National School [also known as Damer Mixed National School] from 1895 to 1900. This is from the Dublin Unitarian Church Collection, donated to the Royal Irish Academy in two separate deposits, in 2006 and 2008.

Roll Book of the Stephen’s Green National School [also known as Damer Mixed National School] from 1895 to 1900. (RIA/DUC/2/DAM/11).

Labels

Everything is labelled and classified in a library! One of the most interesting artefact items in the library collections is Cynthia Longfield’s glass insect killing jar wrapped in fragment of sailcloth of sailing vessel, the “St. George”. As it has a handwritten label, we thought this would be the perfect chance to show this off.

Cynthia Longfield’s glass insect killing jar wrapped in fragment of sailcloth of sailing vessel, the “St. George” (RIA LRC/23).

We find a variety of bookplates in books. One of our favourites is this one belonging to Mathew Dorey, we like the sentiments in the quotes used.

Science

The Royal Irish Academy is an Academy for Science and Humanities, so plenty of collections to choose from for this theme. We decided to look at the Cynthia Longfield collection again, as we thought the images would work well on social media. Cynthia Longfield, 1896-1991, was an Anglo-Irish entomologist. The collection includes an album of photographs, taken and developed during the St. George Expedition to the South Sea Islands 1924-1925, mainly depicting the people and life on the ship and the flora and fauna of the Pacific Islands.

Photograph album “St. George” Expedition to the South Sea Islands 1924-1925. (RIA LRC 27).

For this theme we couldn’t not mention Mary Somerville – ‘queen of nineteenth-century science’. Somerville was an Honorary Member of the Academy and features in our online exhibition ‘Prodigies of learning: Academy women in the nineteenth century’.

Celebration

Celebrate your archives, come on! For the theme of celebration we turned to the Wilmot-Dashkova Collection which gives a bird’s eye view of life at court and on a Russian country estate, and for records of society in France, Italy and Russia in the early 19th century, the Wilmot-Dashkova papers are a mine of information. The collection includes ‘An account of the celebrations at the wedding of His Majesty and Grand Duke Tsar Mikhail Fyodorovich, exactly copied from an ancient manuscript’ containing some lovely watercolours.

An account of the celebrations at the wedding of His Majesty and Grand Duke Tsar Mikhail Fyodorovich, exactly copied from an ancient manuscript, which is preserved in the library of the Imperial College of Foreign Affairs in the archives of Moscow. (RIA ME 12 L 16).

We also posted this beautifully illustrated Address to Rev. Nicholas Donnelly DD, Lord Bishop of Canea, Parish Priest of St Mary’s, Haddington Road, Dublin on the occasion of the silver jubilee of his episcopal consecration. [Dublin, 1908]. The artist, Mary Fitzpatrick (1860?-1937), features in our online exhibition ‘Creative women of Ireland.’ Illuminated addresses are highly decorative manuscript pieces commissioned for special occasions, such as commemorations, ceremonies, retirements and dedications. Addresses were popular in the late C19th early C20th.

Address to the Most Rev. Nicholas Donnelly DD, Lord Bishop of Canea, Parish Priest of St Mary’s, Haddington Road [Dublin] on the occasion of the silver jubilee of his episcopal consecration. By Mary Fitzpatrick (1860?-1937). (RIA MS 4 B 53).

Health

Health is on all our minds more than ever this year. Did you know the Library holds the largest collection of medieval manuscripts containing medical texts in Irish. For Explore Your Archive we re-formatted our exhibition ‘Gaelic Medical Manuscripts’ into an online medium. This exhibition aims to highlight a lesser known aspect of medieval Irish society and the range of medical learning. Of course, we couldn’t leave out a special mention of one of our best known manuscripts The Book of O’Lees. This is an iconic medieval medical text translated into Irish from a Latin version of an Arabic text. Its format is unique in the Irish canon and its history is both colourful and dramatic. For more on the story read our post ‘The mythical Island of Hy Brasil and the Book of O’Lees.’

Book of O’Lees. (RIA MS 23 P 10 ii).

Light

For the final day of the campaign we were asked to post items relating to light. Thomas J. Westropp’s sketchbooks contain a large number of drawings he classes as ‘camera sketches’. These were most likely created using a camera lucida, an optical drawing aid popular with artists at the time. A camera lucida is a simple portable device involving a prism on an extendable stand or stick. The prism reflects the view of a scene in front of the artist and reflects it onto the drawing surface, which can then be traced over. Ideal for the artist in the field.

Franciscan Friary (Quin Abbey) from the east, Quin, Co. Clare / by Thomas J. Westropp. (RIA 3 A 51/364).

Not officially ‘archives’ but we love the lights in the Meeting Room and wanted to show them off. Here’s a little video on the history of this magnificent room (You may recognise it from the Late Late Toy Show last Friday!).

A big thank you to the organisers of Explore your Archives. See you again next year!

Sophie Evans
Assistant Librarian

The Watercolour World (TWW) is a UK-based charity set up specifically to digitise as many ‘documentary’ watercolours from public and private collections worldwide, some of which have never been accessible to the public until now. The website was launched in 2019 with 80,000 digitised watercolours from public collections including the Rijksmuseum, the British Library, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Musée des Beaux-Arts d’Orléans, and the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland. Thousands more images have been added since then, and a quick scroll through the list of contributing institutions reveal The Watercolour World as a truly global project.

Ballarat, 1858 / by George Rowe. Courtesy of Dixson Galleries, State Library of New South Wales.

Watercolours by their nature, are fragile. They are particularly vulnerable to humidity and light, while excess handling also threatens both paper and pigment. Best practice dictates that most are rarely put on public display. Pre-1900 watercolours offer more than aesthetic value, they provide a unique visual record of life, documenting changes to the world and at times reflecting ways of life that no longer exist. Certainly, it was the artist who documented source material for historians before the arrival of the camera. The Watercolour World founder, Dr Fred Hohler states ‘their mission is to assemble all these images in a more durable and digital form and make them freely available on a single website in a properly indexed, geographical format. Collected in one place, they will create the largest and most important pre photographic record of the world.’

Hong Kong Harbor / by Humphrey John Julian. Courtesy of Yale Center for British Art.

Most of the Academy Library’s collection of c. 8,600 antiquarian sketches and drawings could meet the criteria (time period, medium and documentary value) for inclusion in the TWW project. Among our most notable holdings is a collection of watercolours by artist Gabriel Beranger (c. 1729-1817). These should be of interest to all those concerned with Irish art, architecture, archaeology, and history. Beranger was commissioned by William Burton Conyngham (1733-1796), co-founder of the Hibernian Antiquarian Society (1779 -1783), a forerunner of the Royal Irish Academy, to visit, draw and record ruins of Ireland’s ancient monuments, almost 50 years before the Ordnance Survey began its work in 1824. He painted more eighteenth-century topographical watercolours of Irish antiquities than any other artist of the period.

Beranger’s ‘Rambles thro’ the County of Dublin and some others in Ireland’ (RIA MS 3 C 31), a small postcard-size album of 23 watercolours, can now be viewed on the TWW website. These watercolours are copies of Beranger’s originals (since lost) painted on expeditions to Dublin on various dates in the 1770s, Meath in 1775 and Mayo in 1779. He copied the originals into this and sister album RIA MS 3 C 32 sometime between 1780 and 1800. These works are an invaluable record of Ireland and its historic buildings as they were in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Their importance cannot be underestimated especially since many of the buildings have deteriorated into ruin, or in some cases, altogether disappeared.

View at Templeogue / by Gabriel Beranger. RIA 3/C/31/1.

While these watercolours had already been digitised and were available to view on the RIA library catalogue and the Digital Repository of Ireland, the potential of this project to share the artworks we preserve and curate with an even greater audience was an opportunity not to be missed. Admittedly, the nature of the project is ambitious ‘the facility to view, in gallery format, watercolours across multiple collections from the same location created at different times.’ This could take the total number of images into the millions!

So how does it work? The website can be searched by keywords or by map. The search page lets you filter images by geography, collection, artist, category, subject and date range. Images scanned at high resolution allow you to zoom in to look at extraordinary details contained within the paintings. If you choose to search geographically a map pinpoints what and how many images are available from each location, with a useful thumbnail image pop-up to help narrow your search. The digital images on the website have been released to the TWW under a variety of licences which determine how they can be used or published.

Although just a small collection of our watercolours has been uploaded to The Watercolour World since August 2020, analysis of the viewership figures is proving very positive already. Expected hits from Ireland, the UK and the US are joined by views from Chile, Turkey, India, and Japan, to name but a few. Though it is still early days, participation in the project is satisfying our original intention to share our collections with an international audience and perhaps allow people from all over the world to discover the Royal Irish Academy Collections for the first time. In the future, we hope to add more from our watercolour collections.

If you have a moment, take a look at a sample of our Beranger Collection on The Watercolour World and see where it will lead you. Believe me, searching your favourite locations will keep you occupied for hours.

Antoinette Prout
Assistant Librarian

Above the bookcases of the Reading Room and Meeting Room the faces of ancient Roman emperors and other historical figures stare ahead, stony-faced. They are part of the furniture, a constant presence as we go about our daily work. Sometimes, on a gloomy day, with lights low they can seem quite eerie.

Vierpyl busts in the Reading Room

The largest single collection of sculptures held by the Academy was made by Simon Vierpyl. This unique mid-18th century series of busts of Roman emperors and others were copied from originals in the Capitoline Museum in Rome. The sculptures (height 33-37 cm) were made in terracotta and were sent to Dublin in 1755. Originally displayed in Charlemont House on Rutland Square, they were presented to the Academy in 1868 by James Caulfeild, 3rd Earl of Charlemont. Thirteen of the 66 surviving busts are displayed over the mantelpiece in the Meeting Room, the others are displayed above the bookshelves. For more information on the Vierpyl busts see our new Special Collections page.

The Vierpyl busts collection will feature on the Sculpture Dublin website early next month. Sculpture Dublin, a new Dublin City Council public art initiative.

Vierpyl busts in the Meeting Room

One of the largest sculptures in the Academy’s collection is of the head of Minerva (or Athena), a copy of a sculpture from the Louvre, Paris. At 104 cm high, too large to sit atop the bookshelves, the goddess of wisdom sits on the Meeting Room gallery guarding the books. The name of the artist is not known.

Minerva Goddess of wisdom

Keep up to date with our blog posts, we’ll take a look at some more Academy sculptures later in the year.

Sophie Evans
Assistant Librarian

Official records can only tell us so much; they provide the bare bones of a person’s life, informing us when someone was born, if they married and had children, and when they died. Official records, however, do not tell us who a person was and what they were like. For information such as this, we must turn to other sources, and correspondence proves to be exceedingly crucial in this respect. The vast collections of correspondence held in the Library of the Royal Irish Academy help us to put together a more complete picture of some of its members, including the subject of this piece, where his correspondence helps to fill in some of the blanks which official records were unable to do. While writing a biography of James Hardiman for a forthcoming publication, Hardiman and Beyond: the Arts and Culture in Galway, 1820-2020, I had the remarkable work of Marie Boran, Special Collections Librarian, James Hardiman Library, NUIG and Christopher Townley, former Librarian, NUIG, to draw on, but it was his letters that really enabled me to give him shape as a person.

James Hardiman’s signature RIA MS 12 N 21.

James Hardiman was born in ca. 1782 in the town of Westport. One of our sources for this is in a letter which forms part of the Ordnance Survey Letters for County Mayo. In it, his friend and member of the Topographical Section of the Ordnance Survey John O’Donovan, writes that “this town gave birth to James Hardiman, rectius Hardagon, Esq., author of the History of Galway and compiler of the Irish Minstrelsy. He was born about sixty years ago in a house opposite which I now sit” (RIA 14 D 27, Mayo Letters Volume 1, p. 442). O’Donovan was writing in 1838, which makes Hardiman’s birth in 1782 a possibility. O’Donovan’s account continues with a story of Hardiman’s eye injury at the age of two rendering him ineligible for a career as a priest, but that Hardiman’s character was so renowned for his virtue and intellect, that a Papal dispensation was sought and duly given. However, so waylaid by the Napoleonic Wars, Hardiman in the meantime had moved with his family to Galway City and had changed his intended profession to practicing law instead. This account is impossible to verify, as it exists nowhere outside of O’Donovan’s letter.

Hardiman worked in the Public Records Office where he consulted and wrote about official records, which stood him in good stead when he came to compile his History of the Town of Galway, published in 1820. A letter from Charles O’Conor in 1826, on behalf of his employer the Duke of Buckingham, demonstrates how Hardiman’s reputation as a history writer and manuscript collector was held in high regard, as O’Conor notes his admiration of the History and offers to buy his manuscripts from him (RIA 12 N 21/225). Hardiman, as revealed in his correspondence, was a generous man. Scattered throughout his correspondence in 12 N 20 and 12 N 21 are a series of thank you notes from numerous correspondents to whom he had sent copies of books or, in the case of James Clarence Mangan, had given money. Hardiman also had an uncompromising side, particularly when it contravened his beliefs. His habit of making notes about his correspondents on their letters reveals what he really thought of some people – for example, on an apology note from fellow antiquarian Owen Connellan, he wrote that “Poor Owen (a copier of Irish) was born a Roman Catholic, but became a Protestant to better his condition” (RIA 12 N 20/104).

Royal Irish Academy Library. James Hardiman Papers. (left) RIA MS 12 N 20/139 (right) RIA MS 12 N 20/104

If, in reconstructing Hardiman’s life, all there was to go on were facts and figures, then we would only have a rough idea of his year of birth, the year he entered Kings Inns, and the year he died. We would certainly know about his publications but would have no idea about his motivations for engaging with the work; what people thought of it; and how widely it was read. We would have no idea about his friendships and, ultimately, there would be very little to give substance to the name. Hardiman’s letters to and from him change this greatly.

Dr. Ciaran McDonough
Postdoctoral Researcher in History
Moore Institute
NUI Galway

Twitter: @metamedievalist

Hardiman and Beyond: the Arts and Culture in Galway, 1820-2020, edited by John Cunningham and Ciaran McDonough (Arden) will be published later this year.

Main image: Portrait of James Hardiman from Galvia (1956). Courtesy of James Hardiman Library, NUI, Galway.

Our modern Irish word díthreabhach, ‘hermit’, has its origins in the early Irish treb ‘household or tribe’ where the compound dí + treb denoted a place away from the dwellings and habitations of others. Voluntary seclusion was of course common in the religious life, and many places where solitude or retreat from the world was sought made their way into our placenames, such as at Coill an Díthreabha (the wood of the solitary place, or Killadeer) near Ballintubber in Co. Mayo. Common also was the element díseart, from Latin desertus, and again there is evidence for this in placenames throughout Ireland. A díthrubach, then, was one who spent time in solitude, away from others, and our literature makes frequent reference to the practice of seeking out such solitude to be closer to God.

A good example of this in Mánas Ó Domhnaill’s Betha Colaim Chille (Life of Colum Cille), completed in 1532, tells of Cormac Ua Liatháin of Durrow, who came with Colum Cille to Scotland, but who then wished to depart: do tindscain … iar sin a dul ar fasach no a n-inadh rouaicnech a mbeith se ag denamh crabuidh gó a bás ‘he purposed to go into a wilderness or solitary place where he might live in piety till his death’.

It is no surprise to find frequent mention of hermits in the voluminous religious literature of Counter-Reformation Ireland in the seventeenth century, and in the Franciscan Antoin Gearnon’s 1645 work Parrthas an Anma (The Paradise of the Soul), written in Louvain, the author gives a version of Liottáin na Naomh (The Litany of Saints) which includes the line A uile naomhmancha agus díthreabhacha, guidhidh orainn ‘every saint and hermit, pray for us’.

It is clear by the early eighteenth century, however, that in the vernacular the concept díthreabh/díthreabhach was beginning to take on further connotations of meaning to do with poverty, rejection, exile and destitution. The poet Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna, who is associated with the Cavan/Fermanagh region in the period, wrote complaining of his lodgings which he sarcastically called ‘An Caisleán Cam’:

‘b’fhearr domh claíomh a chur fríd mo thaobh clí,
m’fhágáil sínte agus gan smid i mo cheann
ná mé a bheith mo dhíorfach i measc na ndaoine,
is ag creathnú san oíche insan Chaisleán Cham.’

‘better for me to have a sword pierce my left side
to be left for dead in a state of unconsciousness
than to lie here as a ‘hermit’ among the people,
trembling all night in this Caisleán Cam.’

Disagreements and disputes were a frequent occurrence in eighteenth-century Ireland among poets who were fond of elaborate wordplay and one-upmanship. Ránall Mac Dónaill, a poet who operated in the Louth/Armagh region, took great umbrage at Brian Mac Cuagáin, a poet of Meath who had criticised the northern province and its poets. Towards the end of a 100-line retaliatory ‘take-down’ of the Meathman, we find the following by Mac Dónaill:

‘go dtite go luath do ghruaig ‘s d’ingne,
go mbeire an ghaoth rua is na sluaite sí
tusa leo uainn faoi bhruach i ndíthreabh’

‘May your hair and nails soon fall out,
May the wild wind and the fairy hosts carry you
with them, away from us, to the edge of a wilderness’

This connotation of díthreabhach as not only a hermit, but one who is miserable or destitute was sufficiently embedded in the vernacular for Dinneen to include it in his entry for the word in his dictionary compiled in the early twentieth century, which includes the sense ‘a puny child, chicken, etc.’ in a typically effective use of ‘etc.’ to round off a definition. He makes mention too of the Ulster dialectal form díorfach (which we have encountered in the quotations above) but also dírthreoch and díthreoch – this latter we find in Seóirse Mac Clúin’s 1922 collection of Gaeltacht speech Réilthíní Óir (completed with the aid of Tomás Ó Criomhthain of the Great Blasket island) with a further meaning noted:

‘díthreóch bocht garsúin é sin ná mairean a athair ná a mhathair: gan éinne bheith ‘na chúram, agus é bocht. Tugtar díthreóch ar an uan go séanfadh a mháthair é agus mar sin de’

‘it is a poor ‘díthreóch’ of a child whose mother or father are no longer living: a poor child with no-one to care for him. Also called a ‘díthreóch’ is the lamb which is rejected by its mother, and so on’

The west-Kerry writer Seán Óg Caomhánach (Seán a’ Chóta) expands this meaning further in Croidhe Cainnte Chiarraighe, his collection of speech from his native Gaeltacht, compiled between 1937 and 1942. In a long explanation of díthreabhach (díthreóch), he offers ‘aindeiseoir, duine ar an bhfán nó n-a aonair de dheascaibh cailleamhna a mhuinntire nó a chairde; truaghán’ as definitions, which might be translated as ‘a miserable person, one who is wandering or alone having lost his relations and friends; a wretch’. Máirtín Ó Cadhain, for his part, in his collection of speech in Conamara from the same period, illustrates his unparalleled range of vocabulary in glossing díthreabhach with a comprehensive description of its meanings (and for which my poor attempt at a translation to English must suffice):

goróir, díol trua; dúradán dona; frídeoirín; feithideach; séacla; duine nó beithíoch atá an-tugtha anuas ag amhgar, ag fuacht, ag tinneas nó eile; duine, beithíoch nó rud gan aon téagar; crupach; dílleachta nó duine a bheadh fágtha ar an bhfaraor géar (níl an tseanchiall — “hermit” — sa gcaint anois chomh fada le m’eolas).

‘someone who can only sit by the fire, a pitiful type; a puny unfortunate person; a little article; someone wasted away; a tiny creature; a person or animal stricken by ill-fortune, by cold, by illness or other; a person, animal or thing without substance; a shrunken thing; an orphan or a person left in a bad state (the old meaning – “hermit” – is no longer heard now, as far as I know).

And so Ó Cadhain, in finishing his definition, gives us to believe that the use of the word díthreabhach to denote ‘a hermit’ was not one he had encountered in the vernacular of his own time, but furnishes examples of how it is used in new, figurative ways in a perfect illustration of how words gather and lose meanings over centuries of use.

Image: St. Macduach’s cell, at Kinallia / Thomas J. Westropp (RIA 3 A 49/262) le caoinchead Leabharlann Acadamh Ríoga na hÉireann

How often we say ‘Send me a note’ or even ‘Text me’. It all seems so easy.

How can unlikely things like Bus-Pass, Uni-slim, Japanese Knotweed be linked to the Cathach? But all things are possible for a mind such as mine, which wanders, meanders, ambles, races, hither and tither.

Like all children in the 50s, I had read at school the story of St Columba, and that he had magically in a single night copied a borrowed manuscript, the ensuing row over keeping the copy, his exile to Iona (in fourth class, learning to spell ‘exile’!), not being allowed to let his feet touch Irish soil, his cleverness at tying sods of Scottish turf to his feet so that he could return to Ireland and keep to the letter of his exile. (I wasn’t so sure about the honesty of that, I was going through a scrupulous stage myself. In that era even a child could be said to suffer from ‘Scruples’). But nobody, nobody, ever mentioned this jewel of a manuscript was still in existence. And in Ireland. And that it could be viewed.

On my first visit to the Royal Irish Academy (RIA), I was researching an ogham stone near Ballyferriter in Co Kerry, Cathair na gCat (Cahernagat SMR ref KE042-093003). I had been working on making 3D images for a local Dingle Peninsula based project (www.corcadhuibhne3D.ie), and I had heard there was a reference in the Windele Collection to this particular ogham stone (Ref. page 939). A sketch by the Rev. James Goodman, dated September 17th 1855, shows the complete stone. It was later broken in the 1880s and the last portion of the lettering lost. The collection contains various letters and opinions on deciphering the ogham. (See also J.Cuppage (1986). ‘Corca Dhuibhne. Dingle Peninsula Archaeological Survey. Ballyferriter: Oidhreacht Chorca Dhuibhne’ no 549. On my return to Ballyferriter, Isabel Bennett, archaeologist with Oidhreacht Chorca Dhuibhne, casually asked me if I had seen the ‘Cathach’ while I was there. I had to plead ignorance. I had no idea what it was, or even that it existed. Now fuelled with enthusiasm, on my next visit to Dublin I trotted along to the RIA and duly asked at reception ‘Can I see the Cathach please?’ There followed a cringe factor. I really had absolutely no idea how precious this manuscript was, how vulnerable, what was involved in displaying it, or really anything about it.

But true to form, when I am thwarted in a mission, my resolve is strengthened. And on the next display date, I waited outside the RIA for 15 minutes before opening time so that I could join the queue, but at the same time, not appear too eager. I brought along my son-in-law Reuben. After almost two decades working in Africa, the family had recently settled in Ireland, and I wanted to impress him and show him how cultured his mother-in-law was, and not just a wild woman of the west. It is a bit of an understatement to say Reuben loves books.

There was no queue. There was just us two. There weren’t even any signs or banners at reception. There was just the usual calm, and a nod to indicate we could proceed into the library. I can’t tell you the reverence I felt approaching it. It felt akin to approaching a new-born grandchild, someone familiar but as yet unknown. Sophie Evans gave us a really detailed description. Then she indicated the tiny pin-pricks on one folio, where the scribe had painstakingly used some device or compass to perfectly ornament or inscribe the letter ‘M’. I don’t have the terminology relating to the calligraphy, I just know I nearly cried with emotion. So much for impressing Reuben with my nonchalance! Then Sophie went on to explain how the ink was made from oak-galls, etc., but that she had never seen them. Such was my gratitude for her time, I resolved in my mind to send her some should I ever find them, but in truth, with no great belief I ever would.

Let me jump to the ‘Bus Pass’. I absolutely love it and the freedom it gives me to hop on and off trains and buses. A warm August afternoon, I needed to travel from Cork to Midleton via train. It’s an hourly service. It shares the line with a train from Cork to Cobh as far as Glounthaune and there the line divides. The trains leave at different times.

A warm afternoon in Kent station, the coffee dock beckons me. But I am never satisfied with just coffee. There are temptations in the line of Danish Pastries, etc. I have very little resolve. ‘Lead us not into temptation’ I pray to the Uni-slim god, for help in resisting the coffee and pastries and decide instead to travel to Glounthaune, hop off the Cobh train and have a quick walk in the sunshine before hopping on the next train to Midleton.

At various stages along that main Cork-Dublin road, there are signs of the nature, ‘Under pain of death, do not touch the Japanese Knotweed’ or such like. My garden suffers a similar affliction. So, I stroll along this very pretty stretch of road towards the village, admiring the leafy path and what had been achieved by clever planting on what was virtually a loop created by building a dual-carriageway, and contemplating the dangers of Japanese Knotweed. Meandering, that’s what I was doing, when I spotted an oak-gall on the grass, and looking up saw clusters hanging from the young oak trees, and I thought of my visit to the RIA. The trees were young, the branches low, but just out of reach, so I resolved to come back the next day, armed with a stick and hook them down. But for the moment, I had to high-tail it back to the station to catch my connection to Midleton.

Next morning saw me parked up and self-consciously hooking the branches with a walking stick. I collected those I could reach, being careful not to take all, and leave some in their natural habitat. I could reach about a dozen or so. At this stage any knowledge I had gained came via Google. It appears the oak-gall wasp lays its eggs on an oak tree. A gall forms around them. This is a marble sized and shaped hard brown ball. They look like Maltesers. As the wasp matures and emerges, she/he exits through a tiny hole. On inspecting my oak-galls, I could see that only some had tiny holes. I imagined there was a possibility the other wasps might eat their way out while I was driving back to Dingle, so I emptied my trusty lunch box and placed the galls in it. And promptly forgot about them.

A week later, while tidying the car, I came across the lunch box. Bound to be smelly at this stage. So, I opened it outdoors. And out crawled six very disorientated wasps. They took a few moments to stretch their wings and then away with them. I felt all maternal and worried about them as they expected to emerge in Cork, not Kerry and I don’t know where the nearest oak tree is. There are sycamores a-plenty, ash, birch, rowan, but I am a long way from any mature oak trees, at least half the length of the peninsula.

It felt safe now to play with the oak-galls. I kept a few for Sophie as promised, but it seemed a pity to let the others go to waste. So, I resorted to Google once more. There are various descriptions of the process. One such by the British Library was most useful. (Ref. https://www.bl.uk/medieval-english-french-manuscripts/articles/how-to-make-a-medieval-manuscript, Kathleen Doyle and Patricia Lovett.) In the end, I placed the galls in a plastic sandwich bag, and crushed them with a hammer. Using an old plastic Cadbury’s Roses box, I collected rainwater, as instructed. I have to assume that rainwater would supposedly have no mineral content. I sacrificed an old small saucepan, and simmered them for a while. Then I strained the liquid through a nylon “pop-sock”. Another sacrifice. One day no doubt, I shall be frantically looking for its comrade. I held onto the now stewed oak-galls and poured the liquid in a sterile jam-jar. Oh dear, I had forgotten to make some rust. I tried two methods. I recycled some old iron nails from my tool-box and let them steep for a few days in more rain-water. That didn’t work too well so I resorted to steeping steel wool in another jam-jar of rainwater, with much more success. But by now, my ‘ink’ had developed a thick mould on top. So, I threw it back into the saucepan and simmered it for longer. Next on the menu was Gum Arabic. Not knowing what it was, but having something in mind like gelatine, I first tried to find some in a Health-food shop, then a Pharmacy and finally an Art Supply shop, where I had had to order it. It’s not often in life one gets a phone call from a supplier saying ‘Your Gum Arabic has arrived’. It seems Gum Arabic has been around for thousands of years, and comes from the Acacia tree. I had no idea how much to add, so I erred on the side of caution and added just a few drops. Google said it would make the ink glossy. By now, I couldn’t wait to try out my ink. Still hot, I dipped a pen in and the first thing my muscle memory wrote was my name in old Irish script, just as I had written it at school, all those years ago, Cáit Jervois, but that’s another story.

There was still lots to do. The ink was too pale. I added more rust to turn it black. The ink still went mouldy. I added more Gum Arabic, to make the ink more viscous. I experimented with nibs, different widths etc. Oh, the embarrassment of standing in a queue in a bookshop with a ‘Teach Yourself Calligraphy’ set, hoping the shop assistant would think I was buying for a grandchild. Imagine being found out I wanted to emulate the scribe of the “Cathach”. I prayed to the gods to forgive my presumption.

Meanwhile, memories keep flooding back. The ink-stains on the callous on the first knuckle of my second finger on my right hand. Furtively trying to use milk to remove ink-stains from my mother’s tablecloth, which she insisted on using for tea, and hoping she wouldn’t notice on her return from her nightly trip to the church. The rotating responsibility at school, of handing out pens and nibs and the little scraps of flannel cloth for cleaning them. The little ceramic ink-wells, with the brass sliding covers, set into the desks. Blotting paper. Blobs of ink. The best nibs were used ones, almost rusty. New nibs caused the ink to run in blobs. There was a time, I was about twelve, when I insisted on using a seagull feather with which to do my homework. Cutting a slit in it to let the ink run. The slit was not dead- centre, just a little offside. I couldn’t lean too hard, or the slit opened, causing the writing to have a shadow line. But I loved it.

Lord Byron’s quote, ‘A drop of ink may make a million think’, is as valid today as it was a couple of centuries ago. Maybe I had better collect more oak galls next season and experiment some more and make some mould-free ink. Thankfully, the need to reach out is still there, be it by text or by ink.

Kathleen Jervois Reen

At 11.00 a.m. on 30 March 2020 voting closed for 49 seats in Seanad Éireann. The 26th Seanad (Senate) will comprise 11 Taoiseach’s nominees, together with six senators elected by the National University of Ireland and the University of Dublin (Trinity College) panels — three per panel — and 43 senators nominated by a range of bodies including Dáil deputies, city and county councils, educational, agricultural, community and arts organisations. The latter senators sit on five distinct panels broadly representative of all sectors of Irish life. In the current election 45 women are running for 49 seats across the gamut of panels. Will women achieve a higher representation pro rata than in the recent Dáil elections which saw 36 women of a total of 160 TDs returned to the 33rd Dáil (22.5%)? Apart from the fact that more women will vie for and are likely to attain seats than was the case in the first Seanad, the structure of the upper house of the Oireachtas has changed little since the first body sat on 11 December 1922.

This was a period of cautious optimism in the wake of the tumultuous events of the previous decade in Ireland — the 1913 Lockout and the 1916 Rising — as well as the upheaval of World War, the ravages of the Spanish flu pandemic, and the more recent War of Independence and Civil War. Remarkably, and perhaps a sign of things to come, women who had played an important role in the journey to independence, were reduced to four representatives, albeit independent ones, with strong political-activist credentials —

Jennie Wyse Power (1858-1941) was a feminist, politician, founder of Sinn Féin
Eileen Cuffe, Countess of Desart (1857-1933), philanthropist, Irish speaker, company director
Edith Costello/Eibhlín Uí Choisdeailbh (1870-1962), writer, teacher, folklorist
Alice Stopford Green (1847-1929), historian, political activist

Membership roll of the first senate of the Irish Free State, presented as a ceremonial gift by Senator Alice Stopford Green on 26 November 1924.

Chaired by James Henry Mussen Campbell, 1st Baron Glenavy QC, Westminster MP and Lord Chancellor of Ireland 1918-21, the Seanad included poet, W.B. Yeats, writer and surgeon, Oliver St John Gogarty, five earls (Dunraven; Granard; Kerry; Mayo; and Wicklow), academic Douglas Hyde (later first President of Ireland) and a mix of representatives of the diverse political and cultural constituencies in the new state.

Cogniscent of the different traditions represented in the upper house as well as of the formative role the body should play in the new state, in 1924, Senator Stopford Green commissioned Mia Cranwill (1880-1972), an artist specialising in fine metalwork to design and execute a casket intended to hold a vellum roll containing the senators’ signatures. The casket was to be placed on the Chairman’s desk in the chamber for the duration of each session. Mrs Green’s dedicatory speech was read on her behalf on 24 November 1924 —

‘Senators will agree that we should place no emblem before us in this Assembly that is not of Ireland, in spirit and in workmanship, carrying in it the faith both of the Old Irish world and of the New. I have insisted, therefore, that the form of the casket should go back in direct descent to the ‘shrines’ designed by the Irish over a thousand years ago. The artist has magnificently proved the power of that spiritual inheritance which has been bequeathed to us from an Old Ireland: and has shown that a really living art has no need to copy in slavish routine, and can to-day be as free and original and distinguished as in the times of ancient renown, supposed to have been lost.

Thus the shrine in its intense vitality carries to us its own message. That if we want to revive here an Irish nation we must dig our roots deep into its soil, and be nourished by that ancient earth. In Old Ireland, a land of many peoples, it was not privileges of race that united Irishmen in one country and under one law. It was a common loyalty to the land that bore them…’

The Senate casket was transferred to the Royal Irish Academy on the dissolution of the first Seanad in 1936. Since then it has been displayed on numerous occasions at the Academy and in exhibitions at the RHA Gallagher Gallery (Dublin), in Glasgow, Edinburgh and Los Angeles.

The casket’s design was inspired by Gallarus oratory, Co. Kerry, and wrought in Norwegian copper, overlaid with silver and with top panels of filigree silver and gold, ornamented with four large conical panels in blue, vermillion and brick-coloured cloisonné enamel. Rather theatrically, the casket was designed to be carried ceremonially on poles in the manner of early Irish shrines; alternatively, it could be displayed on a beautifully crafted stand of Irish yew.

The designer, Mia Cranwill was a fervent nationalist of an old Danish-English family originally named Crayneswell. She was highly skilled in metalwork and well-versed in Celtic motif; the casket is considered to be a high point of Irish Arts and Crafts production. Cranwill left a written explanation of the elaborate casket imagery which gives us some indication of her character and quirky sense of humour:

‘To connect for ever the gift with the giver, the armorial bearings of the Stopford family were used… and the crest is the water wyvern. The wyvern typifies the donor who here turns towards a figure in decoratively-translated 20th-century morning dress ― (complete down to his spats!) ― who represents the recipient senators. She appears to be bringing the crane… to the notice of the senators. The maker’s signature is between the feet of the crane.

In succeeding years, this, should the individual meaning be lost, might be understood to mean Patronage introducing Art to the people. Under the outspread wings of the wyvern are seen groups of heads in linear treatment: these are other government officials… Below these are seen two queer little winged things out of the wyvern world. One hears ‘thoughts are things’, and these must be wyvern thoughts on the wing, to settle in the minds of other senators or T.D.s and whisper that they also might give a gift of Art to the nation!’

– enduring sentiments from two women, patron and artist.

At a time when so many millions are seeking solace in the arts, Cranwill’s creation may be viewed in our online exhibition, ‘Creative women of Ireland: artists and writers from the archives’.

Siobhán Fitzpatrick
Academy Librarian

For further information:

On the Seanad: https://www.oireachtas.ie/en/visit-and-learn/how-parliament-works/seanad-eireann/ and https://www.oireachtas.ie/en/visit-and-learn/history-and-buildings/history-of-parliament-in-ireland/
The Seanad Éireann electoral process infographic, with acknowledgement to the Oireachtas Library & Research Service.
Membership of First Seanad
Biographies of Alice Stopford Green, Mia Cranwill, Jennie Wyse Power, Eileen Cuffe and Edith Costello are available in the Dictionary of Irish biography (Dublin, 2009).