Category Archives: Ireland

A Dublin fighting-cock

Who did this handsome bird belong to? The apparent answer is James Kelburn, but the truth is trickier.

This particular cock first showed up in Dublin in August 1748. It appeared on a blizzard of polemical pamphlets turned out by the apothecary and radical campaigner Charles Lucas during a Dublin by-election campaign. Lucas was an Irish protestant patriot who had for years been arguing for reform of the Dublin corporation, run by a self-perpetuating club of unelected aldermen. They were in the habit of nominating MPs from among themselves, and in 1748 both members of the Irish parliament for Dublin were also aldermen. One of these two happened to die on 16 August 1748, two days before Lucas put his signature to a municipal reform pamphlet entitled To the free citizens, and free-holders, of the City of Dublin. It was published by a Dublin bookseller named James Kelburn.

Lucas declared his intention to stand for the vacant seat (it would be a 14-month campaign because the writ for the by-election could not be issued until the next session of parliament in October). On 27 August he brought out another pamphlet, named A second address to the free citizens, and free-holders, of the City of Dublin. There would be twenty of them altogether. The first had an unremarkable printer’s ornament on the front. On second edition of the first pamphlet this bespoke fighting cock had replaced the flowers, and it remained there on all the following nineteen addresses.

The inscription – pro patria pugnis unguibus et rostro – ought to be a clue. It translates as ‘for country with fists, claws and beak’ or perhaps ‘fight for country with beak and spurs (our bird has a fierce-looking pair). Voltaire used it as he launched his Traité sur la tolérance on the world in 1763: ‘défendez la bonne cause, pugnis, unguibus et rostro’. He was scolding Jean d’Alembert for ducking out of a fight against the powers of church and state in France over the Encyclopédie the latter had worked on with Diderot (who was still trying to finish it clandestinely).

Without going back as far as the classical poets, where the Latin half of Voltaire’s rallying cry seems to originate (Ovid’s bird was a vulture), the line can be traced to an earlier French provocateur. Voltaire may have been quoting the satirical Molière – but too late to have inspired the words on the Dublin emblem. They probably came straight from Molière. In Le mariage forcé, he has Pancrace say ‘je défendrai cette proposition, pugnis et calcibus, unguibus et rostro’ (I’ll defend that proposition, fists and heels, claws and beak). The play appeared in Paris in the 1660s. Molière’s works in an English translation were published in London in 1714; a French–English parallel text of Le mariage forcé appeared there in 1732 and was reissued in 1748.

Molière being classical – playing César in Corneille’s ‘La mort de Pompée’, as portrayed by Nicolas Mignard in about 1650 [Musée Carnavalet, Paris]

The play does not seem to have been performed in Dublin in the 1740s, but it would certainly have been known. When Lucas was rattling out his election pamphlets, the Smock Alley theatre was run by Thomas Sheridan (godson of Jonathan Swift and father of Sheridan the playwright). He, like Molière, was an actor-manager. In 1737 Sheridan staged his farce entitled The Honest Irishman, which reappeared through the 1740s as The Brave Irishman: or, Captain O’Blunder. It was an adaptation (via Congreve) of another Molière comedy, Monsieur de Porceaugnac. Sheridan, who had known the London theatre world since his teens at Westminster school, went there often to hire acts for Dublin. He and Lucas were friends.

In 1747 a drunken young ‘gentleman’ climbed out of the pit at Smock Alley and went backstage where he sexually assaulted two women. Sheridan had him thrown out, but the drunk caught up with him later demanding an apology and yelling insults at the theatre manager, whom he saw as a social inferior. At that point Sheridan finally cracked and hit him with a stick. Two days later about fifty young gentlemen launched a riot in the theatre. In the resulting public furore Lucas supported Sheridan.

Smock Alley theatre, from The Gentleman’s Magazine, June 1789

Molière takes care of the campaign slogan, more or less, but why the fighting cock? Lucas was in earnest about the corruption of Dublin politics, and set out (at enormous length) the history and workings of the British constitution and its abuse by an oligarchy in Ireland. But maybe the cock was an elaborate pun?

Lucas’s most vitriolic opponent in the pamphlet wars was the pseudonymous Anthony Litten. ‘An old Irishman, one Mac Cruttin … positively insists, the Name Litten, is derived … from an Animal well known in this country … I think he called it, KELLITEEN, which in our language implies, a dastard, or a Dung hill Cock, or Cocks.’ That was Lucas, facetiously citing the Irish scholar and poet Aodh Buidhe Mac Cruitín, who in English wrote as Hugh MacCurtin. Kelliteen is an anglicised version of coilichín, a cock. MacCurtin and Lucas may have cooked that one up together.

Anthony Litten was a pen-name of Sir Richard Cox, MP for Clonakilty, who entitled his blasts against Lucas The Cork Surgeon’s Antidote, against the Dublin Apothecary’s Poyson. He was also a grandson of Sir Richard Cox, lord chancellor of Ireland, whom Lucas accused in print of having had MacCurtin jailed.

Lucas’s bird first strutted in August 1748. Anthony Litten appeared in print a year later, when the cock (to fight two others?) was long fledged. It had already been spotted. In November 1748 a satirical pamphlet appeared, written (by Paul Hiffernan, an enemy of both Lucas and Sheridan) in the form of a last will and testament of Mr C—s L—s :

‘I resign my Soul to the Regions allotted for Spirits of high Views and curious Researches … and should there happen to be any Truth in the Pythagorean Doctrine, I hereby intimate my Desire, that my Soul should lodge in a Cock: a Bird, for whom I have the greatest Respect, as you may find in the Title-Page of all my Addresses; and thus shall I retain my Vigilance, my Readiness for Fight even with my Shadow, my Crowing victorious or defeated, in Time and out of Time: but the chief Reason of my Fondness for this Bird is, that it is the only Species of Creatures, among whom Blinkers are in any Sort of Reputation.’ (Blinkers were fighting-cocks blind in one eye.)

Lucas’s earliest election pamphlets were probably printed by Edward Bate, whose shop, like Kelburn the bookseller’s, was in George’s Lane. The ornament on the two earliest 1748 Lucas pamphlets also appears on an unrelated work printed by Bate. Another very similar cut has a fighting cock in the centre rather than a bowl of flowers. That one’s an oddity, because instead of a comb the cock wears what looks very like a Cap of Liberty or bonnet rouge, emblem of the French Revolution that was yet to come.

All-purpose ornament on Charles Lucas’s first 1748 election pamphlet
Un coq gaulois? In ‘Bishop Burnet’s proofs of the Pretender’s illegitimacy’ by George Wilson, 1724

Le coq gaulois had been a symbol of the French nation since they were Gauls (it’s an old pun on the word gallus). The cap or something like it was known in antiquity as a symbol of freemen, and the bonnet rouge was the emblem of a 1675 tax revolt in Brittany against Louis IV. This particular cock showed up in London in 1724, on a pamphlet entitled Bishop Burnet’s proofs of the Pretender’s illegitimacy, by George Wilson.

Lucas the Dublin patriot may have been reading the Roman historian Tacitus on abuses of power. The bird above appeared in 1732 in translations of Tacitus by a radical Scottish Whig pamphleteer named Thomas Gordon, as a tailpiece under his discourse on Tacitus headed ‘Of Princes’ which was printed in London (a Dublin version had different ornaments). A collection of Gordon’s pamphlets on the Jacobite rebellion (volume 4 of the Independent Whig) was reissued in Dublin by James Kelburn in 1748.

Then there are the geese. In May 1749 the tireless Lucas published The Great Charter of the Liberties of the City of Dublin, in English and Latin, modelled on Magna Carta. It is illustrated with four coats of arms done by the Dublin engraver Philip Simms, presumably to Lucas’s specification. The oddest of the four has the familiar three towers of the city of Dublin on the escutcheon, but the supporters are a hissing goose and a cock. The motto below is VIGILANCE AND VALOR (surely an improvement on the real Dublin Corporation motto, which translates as ‘the obedience of the citizens is the happiness of the city’). The cock represents valour, while the goose refers to the geese that woke the Romans and thereby saved the ancient city. From the Gauls, as it happens.

A goose and a cock from Charles Lucas’s ‘The Great Charter of the Liberties of the City of Dublin’

By that time Lucas was in trouble for sedition. His tenth address had included the following: ‘it must now be confessed that there was no general rebellion in Ireland, since the first British invasion, that was not raised or fomented by the oppression, instigation, evil influence or connivance of the English’. By February 1749 James Kelburn had judiciously removed himself from the imprint, to be replaced by James Esdall who was both a printer and a bookseller, but the fighting cock with its Latin motto remained on the front throughout the series and beyond. The woodcut block must have belonged to Charles Lucas himself, who probably designed it and had it cut (by an unknown hand), then brought it with him to whichever printer was willing to take the risk.

In October 1749 Lucas, Kelburn and Esdall were summoned to appear before the Dublin Commons to answer a complaint made by Sir Richard Cox that Lucas’s writings justified ‘the bloody and barbarous rebellions’ in the kingdom, and tended to create jealousy between Great Britain and Ireland. Esdall absconded, while Kelburn did appear and admitted he had published the first eleven addresses – he could hardly deny it since his name was on them. Lucas also presented himself and argued his political case but refused to incriminate himself. He had energetic support among merchants and tradesmen, but once it was clear he would be arrested and jailed he was obliged to leave Dublin in a hurry.

Portrait of Dr Charles Lucas by Thomas Hickey [Royal College of Physicians of Ireland]

Lucas spent eleven years in exile. First he travelled to England, then on to Paris, Rheims and Leiden where he studied medicine. In 1759 he was admitted as a licentiate to the Royal College of Physicians of London. On the accession of George III in 1760 he was free to come back to Dublin, and the following year he was elected to the Irish parliament. That was probably when he had his portrait done.

As for what inspired Lucas in 1748 to choose a cock for his emblem, it could have been something as simple as a weathercock, or a street sign. Dublin had quite a few. A goldsmith and bookseller named Charles Leslie, for whom Edward Bate printed, had his shop at the sign of the Cock in Castle Street. Lucas lists him in 1749 in A letter to the free-citizens of the city of Dublin, although not among those he singles out as having proved themselves ‘honest and free’ – in other words Leslie was not one of his political allies. But then nor was Richard Cox.

A classicist or an Irish scholar might have a more convincing explanation for this bird. The emblem accompanied Charles Lucas to the grave. It was reported that at his funeral in Dublin in 1771 a cock was emblazoned on the pall. He died an Irish patriot, if never quite a republican.

Some further reading
Vincent Morley, An Crann os Coill: Aodh Buí Mac Cruitín, c. 1680–1755, Dublin, 1995 [in Irish]
Sean Murphy, ‘Charles Lucas and the Dublin Election of 1748-9’, Parliamentary History, 2, 1983, pp. 93–111
Sean J Murphy, A forgotten patriot doctor: Charles Lucas 1713–1771, 3rd edn [online], 2015
Esther K Sheldon, Thomas Sheridan of Smock-Alley, Princeton, New Jersey, 1967

What do you call this place?

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That depends on who’s being asked, and possibly on who’s doing the asking. On the south-west Donegal coast of Ireland in the 1970s, a neighbour advised me that the then-current British Admiralty charts should not be trusted, at least where names were concerned. The charts were derived from an 1859 hydrographic survey, the first of that stretch of coast, and were originally engraved in 1860–61. Apart from compass variations they had not been noticeably updated since then. It was still recalled locally with some satisfaction that the navy men had toured the area asking inhabitants what names were in use there, and duly recorded a series of obliging but mostly spurious answers.

Somewhat disappointingly, the names on the charts of the coast around Teelin, in the civil parish of Glencolumbkille, look very much the same as the ones I heard there in the 1970s. And the army had been there already. Seventeen years before Commander G A Bedford of the British navy arrived in 1852, the Ordnance Survey was in Donegal, on a government project to map all the townlands of Ireland for taxation purposes. The survey was directed by Colonel Thomas Colby of the Royal Engineers and the work driven by a heroic data-mapper, Lieutenant Thomas Larcom. It employed civilians to research local pronunciation of Irish place-names and establish Anglicised spellings. Chief among these was a celebrated Irish scholar and topographer, John O’Donovan, who as a young man spent seven years touring Ireland on toponymic fieldwork, often travelling on foot (and little legs – he was 5ft 2in tall). The place-names around Teelin on a 1967 revision of the sea charts mostly echo those on the Ordnance Survey six-inches-to-the-mile map of 1836, although the charts add some names of coastal features. One at least of these looks a little suspect, among the transliterations: a rock below Slieve League labelled with the frankly English words Giants Rump. An Irish speaker familiar with that coastline might have more to say about it. And if the navy borrowed from the army, the latter probably reciprocated. In his history of the Irish Ordnance Survey, J H Andrews quotes one of Larcom’s successors writing accusingly of the method used to put low-water mark on the Donegal maps: ‘I suspect it to have been obtained from an Admiralty chart’. Andrews adds: ‘the Survey was never very happy about taking to the water’.

O’Donovan saw his work on names as a project of Irish scholarship; but the wide-ranging commentaries he sent back to Dublin remained there in manuscript, and it is unlikely that Bedford saw them. O’Donovan did, however, encounter some local difficulties which have a familiar ring. From Dunfanaghy in the north of the county he reports that for the names of coastal features – rocks, holes, clefts, heads and points – he consults fishermen; a few days later he adds ‘I am sick to death’s door of the names on the coast, because the name I get from one is denied to be correct by another of equal intelligence and authority.’

O’Donovan was an Irish speaker, but he was from Kilkenny and his Irish would have been that of an easterner, very different from Ulster Irish. The latter, according to native Donegal speakers in the 1970s, had enough in common with Scots Gaelic that Irish and Scottish trawlermen were able to keep in touch with each other over the radio and pass on information about where the herring were without alerting English fishing fleets. O’Donovan underlines his own cultural separation from his informants when he observes of the parish of Glencolumbkille: ‘Social immobility seems to me the dominant trait in the character of these people, who live in what may be called the extreme brink of the world, far from the civilization of cities and the lectures of the philosopher.’ And on top of that, he was the army’s man. People in Donegal may have felt scarcely more reason to trust him than they would the British military and the government, or to recognise any common purpose.

Cartographic politics thrown into focus by the 1830s Ordnance Survey have been the subject of Brian Friel’s play Translations, and of a continuing debate arising from it. The Ordnance Survey of Ireland was run from Mountjoy House in Dublin and the six-inch maps of Ireland were engraved there. Following the partition of the country the Irish provisional government insisted on the return to them of the copper printing plates and other materials relating to the Irish survey, which had been progressively removed to the Ordnance Survey’s headquarters in Southampton; in 1923 these were allocated between the Free State government and that of Northern Ireland. On the other hand, if there was a maritime commonwealth of north-western Celts, yet the new Irish state did not get sovereignty over its waters until 1938. And the British navy still rules the mapping of the Irish waves – for now, at least. In the online world there are people working on the idea of crowdsourced hydrography.

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By the time the finely detailed and vigorously engraved Admiralty charts of Donegal came to be published, production had already been outsourced, to the London firm of J & C Walker, prolific map and chart engravers. Relief on the charts is visualised by means of hachures whose lines follow the fall of the slope. Range upon range of dark, knobbly mountains give the charts an energetic beauty absent from the Ordnance Survey’s six-inch maps, which were initially hill-free but during the 1840s and 50s acquired the cool precision of contour lines. Contours matter if you want to lay a railway, for example; mariners need to know how the land looks. In fact the Admiralty charts do show contour lines where they are wanted: they connect soundings of equal depth and so describe the sea-bed. Both sets of vertical data proceed from sea-level; how best to establish a datum point in a moving body of water caused the Survey much difficulty. It is necessarily a fluid concept.

As for George Bedford (not to be confused, as he has been in an official history, with his brother Edward, also navy hydrographer and at that time surveying the complicated west coast of Scotland): his orders, like O’Donovan’s, were to use the acknowledged local names. Did he have the wool pulled over his eyes? I don’t know, but the story has a kind of truth to it anyway. Writing about another part of the Celtic world, Rowan Williams (late of Canterbury) refers in a recent review to ‘a time-honoured Welsh tradition of poker-faced amusement at the expense of the conquerors’.

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Mexican postscript

A peninsula in central America is said to have got its present name when newly-arrived conquistadors asked the people they encountered there what they called it. The locals replied in their language that they could not understand the Spaniards’ speech, and the latter duly rendered what they heard as Yucatán. But the source of this story, sometimes attributed to Cortés, remains slippery; it has the air of being one more seductive frontier myth.

Sources

  • John O’Donovan, Ordnance Survey letters Donegal : letters containing information relative to the antiquities of the county of Donegal collected during the progress of the Ordnance Survey in 1835, Michael Herity ed., Dublin 2000
  • J H Andrews, A paper landscape: the Ordnance Survey in nineteenth-century Ireland, 2nd edn, Dublin 2001
  • Sir Archibald Day, The Admiralty Hydrographic Service 1795-1919, HMSO, London 1967
  • Rowan Williams, review of RS Thomas: Serial Obsessive by M Wynn Thomas, The Guardian, 6 April 2013  http://gu.com/p/3ept5
  • Images of the six-inch plans are online at Ordnance Survey Ireland http://maps.osi.ie/publicviewer/ (listed as Historic 6”)