President Higgins and HRH Duke of Kent unveil Cross of Sacrifice

 

Speech by President Michael D. Higgins at the dedication of the Cross of Sacrifice

Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin Thursday, 31st July 2014

Your Royal Highness;

Lord Mayors;

A Airí / Ministers, Secretary of State;

Ambassadors;

A Cheann Foirne agus a Óglacha na hÉireann / Chief of Staff and Members of the

Defence Forces, Representatives of the British Forces;

A bhalla de hIontaobhas Ghlas Naíon / Members of the Glasnevin Trust;

Representatives of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission;

A Dhaoine Uaisle / Ladies and Gentlemen;

It is important that the First World War, and those whose lives it claimed, be not left as a blank space in Irish history. Today therefore is a significant day, as we dedicate this Cross of Sacrifice – the first such Cross to be erected in the Republic of Ireland.

On an occasion such as this we eliminate all the barriers that have stood between those Irish soldiers whose lives were taken in the war, whose remains for which we have responsibility, and whose memories we have a duty to respect.

San iliomad uaigheanna ar fud na hEorpa, tá glúil de fhir óga curtha taobh le taobh, agus is sna huaigheanna sin ar fad ina n-iomláine atá íospartach an chogaidh sin.

[In so many graves across Europe, the flower of a generation lies together, and all of their graves taken together hold the victims of that war.]

VISIT PHOTO GALLERY

We cannot give back their lives to the dead, nor whole bodies to those who were wounded, or repair the grief, undo the disrespect that was sometimes shown to those who fought or their families.

But we honour them all now, even if at a distance, and we do not ask, nor would it be appropriate to interrogate, their reasons for enlisting. If they could come back no doubt they would have questions to ask as to why it was, and how it came to be that their lives were taken.

To all of them in their silence we offer our own silence, without judgement, and with respect for their ideals, as they knew them, and for the humanity they expressed towards each other. And we offer our sorrow too that they and their families were not given the compassion and the understanding over the decades that they should have received.

The suffering visited upon our own people at home had perhaps blinded our sight and hardened hearts in so many ways.

As His Royal Highness, the Duke of Kent just said in his speech, the Cross of Sacrifice stands in cemeteries in the care of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission throughout Europe, indeed across the world – from Flanders to Gallipoli. As one in a web of many others, this monument reminds us that WWI was a war with a global reach, one that affected every part of the European continent – and that the Irish who fought in that war are an integral part of that history.

In recent years, an increasing number of writers and scholars, religious and political leaders have redirected our gaze to the complexity of the Irish engagement with WWI, allowing for a more inclusive remembering at public level.

As we are facing into that past, we are also progressing in our understanding of the complicated intertwining of loyalties which characterised Irish identities at the turn of the 20th century.

This is facilitated by easier access to, and a renewal of interest in, the writings of Irish soldiers – their diaries, notebooks, letters and poems. The line “not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor” in the sonnet Thomas Kettle dedicated to his three-year old daughter Betty four days before his death during the battle of the Somme, or the poem Francis Ledwidge wrote in honour of his close friend Thomas McDonagh while recovering from his wounds in Manchester in 1916, lend us a better sense of those men’s multilayered senses of belonging.

Such writings throw light on the complex motives and circumstances that led so many Irishmen to volunteer to join the British Army. Whether it was a true belief in ideals; driven by unionist or nationalist feelings, and within that, many different versions of each; escape from poverty; the search for adventure; a friendship network, or the continuation of a family tradition – it is not for us to judge those who fought and their motivations. We should seek, rather, to show such respect for this complexity as does not suggest that we sink into relativism, or a glossing over of differences, some of them enduring and not easily reconcilable.

One century later, the First World War remains somewhat of a mystery. Its origins are mysterious. So is its course. Why, when the hope of bringing the conflict to a decisive conclusion was dashed within months of its outbreak, did the combatants decide to persist, to mobilise for total war and eventually to commit the totality of their young manhood to mutual destruction?

If all wars are an object of infinite sadness, this particular one also remains as an inextinguishable source of bewilderment.

But while historians still struggle to ascribe a definite meaning to the First World War, we now see more clearly what it is that was sacrificed: health, both mental and physical; youth – life itself. Huge destruction was inflicted on families and communities; a whole generation was destroyed that would have furnished their countries with workers, farmers, scholars, artists, administrators and political leaders.

Not only did WWI bring human devastation and economic ruin to Europe, it also shattered the notion of a progress facilitated by science, technology, the promise of democracy; it put an abrupt end to the aspirations of happy modernity and ongoing human improvement harboured by Europeans for the previous forty years: “Never such innocence again”, as Philip Larkin put it in his poem “MCMXIV” [1914].

Today, on the eve of the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War, we are invited to remember with authenticity and historical accuracy the sacrifice of so many Irish men and women who fought alongside soldiers from different nations, backgrounds and social circumstances. We are invited to go beyond disputes as to the legitimacy of the various motivations and causes embraced by those men, in order to reflect, together, on what was lost for everybody in the destructive experience of war.

We are here to remember with respect and dignity the great human loss of those years. Our duty is to mark the graves of all who have lost their lives, wherever they may be – and I wish to salute the invaluable work carried out by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission and the Glasnevin Trust to ensure that this duty is fulfilled.

The wall that stands before us lists 166 Commonwealth burials from the First World War. I invite anyone who reads those names to reflect and give a moment in respectful memory to the individual stories that go with them. Each man had parents and friends; many had a wife, or a lover, children, siblings.

Indeed beyond the staggering statistics associated with WWI – a war whose casualties number in the millions – it is important, I believe, that we do justice to the dead by endeavouring to recover the human dimension of the experience of war, the tragedy of each single death, of every life shattered.

And while it is hard for us to recover imaginatively what life in the trenches was really like, again it is perhaps through reading the writings of the soldiers themselves that we can gain a better sense of the experience of those who fought and lived on the battlefields – the cold and damp, the confined space, the insipid food, the rats and lice, the deafening din of shelling for days on end, the fear, the stench of rotting flesh, the muddy waste land all around, the barbed wire and the burnt villages.

In the letters of soldiers home, in the memoirs too, some of them written after the war, we understand the harrowing character of a mechanical, industrial war. We also must surely be moved by the great humanity those soldiers felt for each other in the face of an incredible carnage. In their letters the combatants confer the title of courage on each other, thus suggesting to us, today, to acknowledge agency on the part of the men and women of the past, and to abstain from any portrayal of them as mere passive victims.

These writings of WWI soldiers also call upon our contemporary responsibility not to leave the power and energies of nations, their formidable industrial capacity, to be unleashed for mutual destruction.

Finally, let me say how the welcome and significant progress of our understanding, in Ireland, for the period of the First World War has also given us a deeper empathy with the British people, for whom WWI, its experience and its recall form such an important element of their identity and mythology. It is an honour to host a monument to that memory.

Just as the generation that produced WWI soldiers, had to leave behind the idiom of the 19th century – that language used for over a century to celebrate the idea and the hubris of progress – we today are invited to leave behind some of the terms and concepts of the 20th century, such as its grammar of binary divisions between “the enemy” and “us”.

The time has come for an ethics of narrative hospitality to replace our past “entrenchments” – that awful word bequeathed to us by an era scarred, not just by the consequences of war itself, but by the effect of the very idea of War, of the possibility of total war, on subsequent generations.

I want to thank you, Sir, for your presence and for your words of recognition for the Irish men and women who were killed during the First World War.

The ability to share sombre and profound national memories is an important statement and act of friendship and respect. As friends we, Irish and British, share this moment of remembrance; and in mutual sympathy we dedicate this monument to the memory of all those who lost their lives during the too long, dreadful years of 1914 to 1918.

Let us now, together, cultivate memory as a tool for the living and as a sure base for the future – memory employed in the task of building peace.

 
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Pretani Associates at Glasnevin

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Van Morrison Review: LA Times, Slieve Donard, 27 July 2014

VAN MORRISON REVIEW: LA TIMES, SLIEVE DONARD, 27 JULY 2014
The LA Times journalist Randy Lewis shares his account of Van Morrison’s performance at the Slieve Donard Resort & Spa. Van performed two shows in an intimate setting at the resort. The performance on Monday 28 July featured special guest Taj Mahal, who joined Van to sing the songs Alabamy Bound and It Takes A Worried Man. 
 

 

VAN MORRISON TAKES HIS MUSIC HOME WITH CONCERT NEAR BELFAST 

Some 400,000 Garth Brooks fans may still be licking their wounds over his aborted concerts in Ireland, which were originally scheduled for this past weekend. But Irish musician Van Morrison gave about 400 of his most devoted followers something worth writing home about Sunday with a rare small-venue show virtually in his own back yard.

At one point, the celebrated singer, composer and lyricist grabbed, of all things, a ukulele, pulled a stool up in front of a microphone stand and sat down, announcing to the audience at the Slieve Donard Resort and Spa in Newcastle (not far from his hometown of Belfast),  “It’s comedy time again.” “This is called ‘sit-down comedy’ — it was invented by Billy Connolly,” the 68-year-old Rock and Roll Hall of Famer said, a broad grin appearing briefly. “Just so you know I’m legitimate, Billy Connolly says I’m very funny. I’m not going to argue with that.”It was a rare — for Morrison especially — moment of onstage levity, the kind of revealing drop of his guard that few outside an inner circle of close associates ever get to witness. This was why those looking on had forked over close to $400 a ticket to see Morrison in such an intimate setting.  

About a quarter of the fans crossed the Atlantic Ocean from the U.S., while another sizable portion came from across Europe for the chance to see the artist sometimes referred to as the Belfast Cowboy virtually in his own back yard, said Howard Hastings, managing director of Hastings Hotels. Hastings owns the resort and spa where Morrison performed in the first of two nights in the hotel’s swanky ballroom, which was outfitted for the shows with three dozen white linen-draped tables for 10. It’s an elegant room that Hastings said normally hosts local tribute bands and other performers who entertain the seaside hotel’s guests. But Morrison in recent years has adopted it as his home field performance space of choice, using it to prepare for other tour dates or just to comfortably play for local fans. “He likes it because it feels like the blues clubs he started out in,” Hastings said.

Morrison has long been one of pop music’s most cherished figures, an artist prized for decades by fans, critics and his fellow Rock Hall of Famers including — but hardly limited to — Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen and U2. But he’s also long been one of pop’s most mercurial and, at times, hermetic figures, one who rarely grants interviews and during his concerts rarely chats with audiences, opting to let his music say whatever he is in the mood to express on any given night. Dressed in a black fedora, shades and a dark gray suit, Morrison was accompanied on Sunday by his musician daughter Shana, who opened the evening with a three-song set of American country-inspired songs, and an accomplished six-piece band.

Like many of the musicians and writers who influenced him, Morrison has been deeply inspired by where he grew up, and over the decades has sung about the cobblestone streets, the undulating hills and the mystic mists of Ireland. But like so many other European musicians, he’s also been powerfully drawn to American music and culture, which was reflected Sunday in a rendition of “Rough God Goes Riding,” a song about the loss of heroes. Morrison name-checked a string of Old West outlaws that extended from Jesse James and Billy the Kid through Clint Eastwood, which drew a laugh from fans. Those fans, Hastings noted, are largely the kind who can spot a nugget such as “Green Mansions” when Morrison reaches deep into his vast songbook, or recognize the first time in years that he’s picked up a guitar to play instead of his more typical blues harmonica or alto sax. As much as these lighter moments allowed Morrison to let down his hair, it was the songs in which he invoked the transcendent spirituality at the core of much of his music that was the big payoff. It was anything but a perfunctory greatest-hits set, with Morrison offering up only a few of his cornerstone numbers near the end of the show. Instead, he opted for gems such as “Queen of the Slipstream,” “So Quiet in Here,” the instrumental “Celtic Swing” and “Whenever God Shines His Light.”

In a meditative, mid-set stretch that included “Sometimes We Cry,” “Who Can I Turn To?” and “In the Garden,” Morrison brought the music down to a whisper, and there was nary a clinking glass or misplaced cough to be heard. During “In the Garden,” he voiced lyrics that can stand alone as poetry on a par with countrymen such as William Butler Yeats, against a soulful arrangement that equaled the best of one of Morrison’s heroes, Ray Charles: The olden summer breeze was blowing against your face, alright?The light of God was shining on your countenance divine?And you were a violet color as you sat beside your father?And your mother in the garden. The song shifted into a mantra on the phrase “no guru, no method, no teacher,” one of several moments Morrison allowed the music to transport him, and his audience, to another place. At 68, his vocal tone and phrasing is as good or better than ever, and he drew a standing ovation in the 100-plus-year-old hotel. “I first heard him in the ’60s, at a show with Aretha Franklin and Dr. John, and I thought then, ‘Who IS this guy?’ ” Said 72-year-old blues-folk great Taj Mahal, another Morrison fan who caught Sunday’s show after recently wrapping up his own European tour in Paris. “Even then, you knew he’s no copyist. There’s a lot of people he likes, but there’s nobody like him.”

Morrison historically has danced only to the tunes he calls, but he indulged at least one request Sunday: Hastings noted during his introduction of Morrison that one couple in the house were celebrating their golden wedding anniversary. The wife’s name? Gloria. Morrison closed the show with a roof-raising performance of his career-establishing 1964 hit with Them. Chalk up another win for the hometown fans.

Caption: Van Morrison and Taj Mahal perform together at the Slieve Donard Resort, Credit; Chris Healey 2014 

 

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Van at Slieve Donard

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Kilbarron/Terryglass Historical Society WWI Commemoration

On Sunday 27th July, Kilbarron/Terryglass Historical Society organised a commemoration of former parishioners who served in WWI. Each person was represented by a family member who placed a rose in their honour. It was a well organised and well attended event. The elderly lady (centre) wearing a green hat is Mrs Pauline Hickie, aged 97, who was married to Brigadier Shamus Hickie, son of Carlos Hickie, who served in WWI together with his elder brother, W.B. Hickie. Her son, A.G. Hickie, is beside her.

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The Confederation of Canaan

The Confederation of Canaan is my answer to the Middle Eastern problem, that is, the formation of a confederation of peoples of Common Identity, centred on Jersusalem. Canaan, Northwest Semitic knaʿn; biblical Hebrew: כנען / knaʿn;  Masoretic: כְּנָעַן / Kənáʿan) was, during the late 2nd millenium BC, a region in the Ancient Near East, which as described in the Bible roughly corresponds to the Levant, i.e. modern-day Lebanon, Israel, Palestine, the western part of Jordan and southwestern Syria.

The name is used commonly in the Bible, with particular definition in references Genesis 10 and Numbers  34, where the “Land of Canaan” extends from Lebanon southward to the ” Brook of Egypt” and eastward to the Jordan River Valley. References to Canaan in the Bible are usually retrospective, referring to a region that had become something else ( most notably the Land of Israel), and references to Canaanites commonly describe them as a people who had been annihilated, just as the Ancient British Pretani , Cruthin or Picts were said to have been annihilated in Pretania, the 6,000 British Isles, by the  Celtic Gaels and English, which, of course, they were not.

Archaeological attestation of the name Canaan in Ancient Near Eastern sources is almost exclusively during the period in which the region was a colony of the New Kingdom of Egypt, with usage of the name almost disappearing following the Late Bronze Age collapse. The references suggest that during this period the term was familiar to the region’s neighbours on all sides, although it has been disputed to what extent such references provide a coherent description of its location and boundaries, and regarding whether the inhabitants used the term to describe themselves. The Amarna Letters and other cuneiform documents use Kinaḫḫu, while other sources of the Egyptian New Kingdom mention numerous military campaigns conducted in Ka-na-na.

The name “Canaanites” is attested, many centuries later, as the endonym of the people later known to the Ancient Greeks from c.500 BC as Phoenicians. Following the emigration of Canaanite speakers to Carthage, and then to Ireland, which is Phoenician for “Uttermost habitation”, it was was also used as a self-designation by the Punics. This mirrors later usage in later books of the Hebrew Bible, such as at the end of the Book of Zechariah, where it is thought to refer to a class of merchants or to non-monotheistic worshippers in Israel or neighbouring Sidon and Tyre.

The term Canaan is used only three times in the New Testament: twice in Acts when paraphrasing Old Testament stories, and once in the Exorcism of the Syrophoenician woman’s daughter. The latter story is told by both Matthew and Mark; Matthew uses the term Chananaia (Χαναναία), where Mark calls the woman Syrophoenician (Συροφοινίκισσα). Strong’s Concordance describes the term Chananaia as “in Christ’s time equivalent to Phoenician”.

Linguistically, the Canaanite languages form a group within the Northwest Semitic languages; its best-known member today is the Hebrew language, being mostly known from Iron Age epigraphy, so that Hebrew should have a special place in the Confederation of Canaan. Other Canaanite languages are Phoenician, Ammonite, Moabite and Edomite, now lost.

Map of Canaan, with the border defined by Numbers 34:1–12 shown in red, and of Ezekiel 47:13-20 in blue.

In biblical usage, the name was confined to the country west of the Jordan, the Canaanites being described as dwelling “by the sea, and along by the side of the Jordan” (Numbers 33:51; Joshua 22:9), and was especially identified with Phoenicia (Isaiah 23:11). The Philistines, while an integral part of the Canaanite milieu, do not seem to have been ethnic Canaanites, and were listed in the Table of Nations as descendants of Misraim; the Arameans, Moabites, Ammonites, Midianites and Edomites were also considered fellow descendants of Shem or Abraham, and distinct from generic Canaanites/Amorites. “Heth”, representing the Hittites, is a son of Canaan. The later Hittites spoke an Indo-European language (called Nesili), but their predecessors the Hattians had spoken a little-known language (Hattili), of uncertain affinities.

The biblical narrative makes a point of the renaming of the “Land of Canaan” to the “Land of Israel” as marking the Israelite conquest of the Promised Land. The Hebrew Bible describes the Israelite conquest of Canaan in the ” Former Prophets” (Nevi’im Rishonim [נביאים ראשונים] ), viz. the books of Joshua, Judges, 1st & 2nd Samuel, 1st & 2nd Kings. These five books of the Old Testament canon give the narrative of the Israelites after the death of Moses and Joshua leading them into Canaan. In 586 BC, the Israelites in turn lost the land to the Babylonians. These narratives of the Former Prophets are also “part of a larger work, called the Deuteronomistic History.

Canaan and the Canaanites are mentioned some 160 times in the Hebrew Bible, mostly in the Pentateuch and the books of Josua and Judges. Canaan first appears as one of Noah’s grandsons during the narrative known as the Curse of Ham, in which Canaan is cursed with perpetual slavery because his father Ham had “looked upon” the drunk and naked Noah. God later promises the land of Canaan to Abraham, and eventually delivers it to descendants of Abraham, the Israelites. However archaeological and textual evidence now supports the idea that the early Israelites were in fact themselves Canaanites. While the Hebrew Bible contrasts the Canaanites ethnically from the Ancient Israelites, modern scholars have theorized that the kingdoms of Israel and Judah were actually a subset of Canaanite culture, based on their archaeological and linguistic interpretations.

The Hebrew Bible lists borders for the land of Canaan. Numbers 34:2 includes the phrase “the land of Canaan as defined by its borders.” The borders are then delineated in Numbers 34:3–12. The term “Canaanites” in biblical Hebrew is applied especially to the inhabitants of the lower regions, along the sea coast and on the shores of Jordan, as opposed to the inhabitants of the mountainous regions. By the time of the Second Temple, “Canaanite” in Hebrew had come to be not an ethnic designation, so much as a general synonym for “merchant”, as it is interpreted in, for example, Job 40:30, or Proverbs 31:24. John N. Oswalt notes that “Canaan consists of the land west of the Jordan and is distinguished from the area east of the Jordan.” Oswalt then goes on to say that in Scripture Canaan “takes on a theological character” as “the land which is God’s gift” and “the place of abundance”. So should it be today, and there should be no more war.

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Gen Sir Hubert de la Poer Gough

http://www.irishtimes.com/culture/heritage/an-irishman-s-diary-on-hubert-gough-an-enigmatic-general-1.1858372

An Irishman’s Diary on Hubert Gough, an enigmatic general

Key figure in Curragh Mutiny and first World War

Gen Sir Hubert de la Poer Gough: His role as neutral Ireland’s defender, and the champion of Irish personnel serving in the British forces, is an unwritten story.

Gen Sir Hubert de la Poer Gough: His role as neutral Ireland’s defender, and the champion of Irish personnel serving in the British forces, is an unwritten story.

Joseph Peter Quinn      

This year marks the centenary of the Curragh Mutiny and the outbreak of the Great War, as well as the 75th anniversary of the start of the second World War. One figure who stands at the intersection of these events, a man often misunderstood, is Gen Sir Hubert de la Poer Gough. Born in London in 1870, Gough came from a long lineage of soldiery. His family were Irish by adoption and were prominent Anglican churchmen, but gradually began to abandon clerical vocations for the “profession of arms”. Hubert was the son of Sir Charles Gough, who distinguished himself at Lucknow, during the Indian Mutiny, winning the Victoria Cross and becoming a major general.

In 1888, aged just 17, Hubert entered the Royal Military College, and in 1889 he joined the 16th Lancers serving in the Malakand Field Force in Northwest India. By the time of the “Curragh Mutiny”, Gough was a brigadier. In March 1914, he led 57 fellow officers of Third Cavalry Brigade to deliver an ultimatum to Gen Paget, declaring that they would accept dismissal “if ordered north” to put down the UVF. Called to Whitehall, Gough and his colonels requested a written assurance that they would not be ordered to enforce Home Rule in Ulster and Secretary of State for War JE Seely agreed to their demands, but Prime Minister Herbert Asquith could not allow army officers to dictate policy and Seely resigned.

During the Great War, Gough was the youngest British general commanding on the Western Front, but was greatly disliked by his superiors because he challenged their decisions and encouraged his own staff to do so. Field Marshal Smuts, however, learned much from Gough about the condition and vulnerability of the line while inspecting the front in January 1918, and described him as “a terrific fellow, oozing with character and Irish humour”.

Such favour would not save him when his Fifth Army bore the brunt of the last German offensive of March 1918. Gough was relieved of his command, despite leading a spirited defensive action against colossal odds. Lloyd George needed to divert attention from his government’s failure to bolster the line adequately and according to his biographer, Anthony Farrar-Hockley, Gough was “sacrificed to political expediency”.

Historians are divided in opinion about Gough; some label him a callous “butcher among generals”, whereas others judge him to have been unusually considerate towards his soldiers.

In his retirement, he stewarded the Fifth Army Comrades Association and led the Chelsea Home Guard in the second World War. It was in this capacity that, ironically, Gough attacked Northern Ireland’s unionist government in August 1941. He co-authored a letter to Churchill and Canadian prime minister William Mackenzie King, criticising Stormont for organising a local defence force, analogous to Britain’s home guard, but “recruited along politico-sectarian lines”. Gough, and other retired Anglo-Irish officers, castigated Craigavon for his policies. While disagreeing with Irish neutrality, they defended the sovereign right to pursue such a course and desired to see old wounds and divisions healed through a spirit of reconciliation.

Gough brought about recognition of the contribution of Irish citizens to Britain’s war effort. In September 1941, he published an editorial in the Times of London, citing that “very large numbers of Irishmen have joined H.M. Forces” and, upon his suggestion, Churchill formed the 38th Irish Brigade, which fought valiantly in North Africa and Italy.

Gough also observed that there was no facility where Irish servicemen and women could meet and rest in London.

With a donation of £1,000 from the Guinness family, he opened the Shamrock Club in Park Lane in March 1943, a venue often frequented by many Irish personnel on leave. In 1946, Gough famously wrote to the Times of London, claiming that, by July 1944, British next-of-kin lists contained 165,000 addresses in the south of Ireland.

He felt that Britain owed a “debt of honour” to these volunteers, who “in spite of their country’s neutrality, crowded unasked to the aid of the United Kingdom in its blackest crisis”.

Gough died in March 1963, his chief legacies being the “preventative mutiny” at the Curragh and his reputation as an “incompetent officer” in 1918. However, his role as neutral Ireland’s defender, and the champion of Irish personnel serving in the British forces, is an unwritten story which, in the year 2014, is fitting to tell.

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Jean-Paul Marat – French Revolutionary

Today is Bastille Day when the French Revolution is celebrated in France and yesterday was the anniversary of the death of  the great French revolutionary Jean-Paul Marat  24 May 1743 – 13 July 1793. I have had the honour of giving a lecture using his name in the Sorbonne in Paris in the room where his body lay in state. He  was a physician, political theorist and scientist best known for his career in France as a radical journalist and politician during the French Revolution. His journalism became renowned for its fierce tone, uncompromising stance toward the new leaders and institutions of the revolution, and advocacy of basic human rights for the poorest members of society.

Marat was one of the most radical voices of the French Revolution. He became a vigorous defender of the sans-culottes, publishing his views in pamphlets, placards and newspapers, notably his “L’Ami du peuple“, which helped make him their unofficial link with the radical, republican Jacobin group who came to power after June 1793.

Marat was assassinated by Charlotte Corday, a Girondist sympathizer, while taking a medicinal bath for his debilitating skin condition. In his death Marat became an icon to the Jacobins, a sort of revolutionary martyr, as portrayed in David’s famous painting of his death.

Jean-Paul Marat was born in Boudry in the Prussian Principality of Neuchâtel, now part of Switzerland, on 24 May 1743.  He was the second of nine children born to Jean Mara (Giovanni Mara), a native of Cagliari, Sardinia, and Louise Cabrol, a French Huguenot from Castres. His father was a Mercedarian “commendator” and religious refugee who converted to Calvinism in Geneva. At the age of sixteen, Marat left home in search for new opportunities, aware of the limited opportunities for outsiders. His highly educated father had been turned down for several secondary teaching posts. His first post was as a private tutor to the wealthy Nairac family in Bordeaux. After two years there he moved on to Paris where he studied medicine without gaining any formal qualifications.
 
Moving to London around 1765, for fear of being “drawn into dissipation”, he set himself up informally as a doctor, befriended the Royal Academician artist Angelica Kauffman, and began to mix with Italian artists and architects in the coffee houses around Soho. Highly ambitious, but without patronage or qualifications, he set about inserting himself into the intellectual scene with works on philosophy (“A philosophical Essay on Man”, published 1773) and political theory (“Chains of Slavery”, published 1774). Voltaire’s sharp critique in defense of his friend Helvetius brought the young Marat to wider attention for the first time and reinforced his growing sense of a wide division between the materialists, grouped around Voltaire on one hand, and their opponents, grouped around Rousseau on the other.

Around 1770, Marat moved to Newcastle upon Tyne, possibly gaining employment as a veterinarian. His first political work Chains of Slavery, inspired by the activities of the MP and Mayor John Wilkes, was most probably compiled in the central library here. By Marat’s own colourful account, he lived on black coffee for three months, during its composition, sleeping only two hours a night – and then slept soundly for thirteen days in a row. He gave it the subtitle, “A work in which the clandestine and villainous attempts of Princes to ruin Liberty are pointed out, and the dreadful scenes of Despotism disclosed”. It earned him honorary membership of the patriotic societies of Berwick, Carlisle and Newcastle. The Newcastle Literary and Philosophical Society Library[possesses a copy, and Tyne and Weir Archives Service holds three presented to the various Newcastle guilds.

A published essay on curing a friend of gleets (gonorrhea) probably helped him to secure his referees for an MD from the University of St Andrews in June 1775. On his return to London, he further enhanced his reputation with the publication of an Enquiry into the Nature, Cause, and Cure of a Singular Disease of the Eyes.

In 1776, Marat moved to Paris following a brief stopover in Geneva to visit his family. Here his growing reputation as a highly effective doctor, along with the patronage of the marquis de l’Aubespine, the husband of one of his patients, secured his appointment, in 1777, as physician to the bodyguard of the comte d’Artois, Louis XVI’s youngest brother who was to become king Charles X in 1824. The position paid 2,000 livres a year plus allowances.

Marat was soon in great demand as a court doctor among the aristocracy and he used his new-found wealth to set up a laboratory in the marquise de l’Aubespine’s (thought by some to be his mistress) house. Soon he was publishing works on fire & heat, electricity and light. In his Mémoires, his later enemy Brissot admitted Marat’s growing influence in Parisian scientific circles. When Marat presented his scientific researches to the Académie des Sciences, they were not approved for official publication. In particular, the Academicians were appalled by his temerity in disagreeing with (the hitherto uncriticized) Newton. Benjamin Franklin visited him on several occasions and Goethe described his rejection by the Academy as a glaring example of scientific despotism. In 1780, Marat published his “favourite work”, a Plan de législation criminelle. Inspired by Rousseau and Cesare Beccaria, a polemic for judicial reform, entered into a competition organised by the Berne Academy, argued for a common death penalty for all regardless of social class and the need for a twelve-man jury to ensure fair trials.

In April 1786, he resigned his court appointment and devoted his energies full-time to scientific research. He published a well-received translation of Newton’s Opticks (1787), which was still in print until recently, and later a collection of essays on his experimental findings, including a study on the effect of light on soap bubbles in his Mémoires académiques, ou nouvelles découvertes sur la lumière (“Academic memoirs, or new discoveries on light”, 1788).

Many of his references to slavery illustrate the curious links between the use of the language of slavery in a metaphorical sense (to be “slave” to a king) and the triangular trade (chattel slavery). As a tutor to the Nairac family in the leading slave port of Bordeaux, he may have witnessed aspects of the trade. Monsieur Nairac was a leading slave merchant and later an ennobled member of the National Assembly. Soon after the uprisings in the Caribbean island and sugar colony of St Domingue (later Haiti after its revolution), he wrote in 1792 that those in St Domingue are “a separate people” from France. He cited the new constitution (of 1791), “The basis of all free government is that no people can be legally subject to another people…” (from “The Friend of the People” 1792. See the excerpt in Dubois & Garrigus, editors, “Slave Revolution in the Caribbean, 1789-1804”, p 111-112).

On the eve of the French Revolution, Marat placed his career as a scientist and doctor behind him and took up his pen on behalf of the Third Estate. After 1788, when the Parliament of Paris and other Notables advised the assembling of the Estates-General for the first time in 175 years, Marat devoted himself entirely to politics.His Offrande à la Patrie (“Offering to the Nation”) dwelt on many of the same points as the Abbé Sieyès’ famous “Qu’est-ce que le Tiers État?” (“What is the Third Estate?”) Before the Estates-General met in June 1789, he published a supplement to his Offrande, followed in July by La Constitution (“The Constitution”) and in September by the Tableau des vices de la constitution d’Angleterre (“Tableau of the flaws of the English constitution”) intended to influence the structure of a new constitution for France. The latter work was presented to the National Constituent Assembly as an anti-oligarchic dissent from the Anglomania that was then gripping that body.

In 12 September 1789, Marat began his own paper, which was first called Publiciste parisien, before changing its name four days later to L’Ami du peuple (“The Friend of the People”). From this position, he often attacked the most influential and powerful groups in Paris, including the Corps Municipal, theConstituent Assembly, the ministers, and the Cour du Châtelet. In January 1790, he moved to the radical Cordeliers section, the Club des Cordeliers, then under the leadership of the lawyer Danton, was nearly arrested for his aggressive campaign against the maequis de La Fayette, and was forced to flee to London, where he wrote his Dénonciation contre Necker (“Denunciation of Jacques Necker”), an attack on Louis XVI’s popular Finance Minister. In May, he returned to Paris to continue publication of L’Ami du peuple and briefly ran a second newspaper in June 1790 called “Le Junius français” named after the notorious English polemicist of that name.

Marat faced the problem of counterfeiters distributing falsified versions of L’Ami du peuple , which led him to call for police intervention. Ironically, Marat’s L’Ami de peuple was originally an illegal publication itself. However, effective police intervention resulted in the suppression of the fraudulent issues, leaving Marat the continuing sole author of L’Ami de peuple.

Fearing reprisal, Marat went into hiding in the Paris sewers, where he almost certainly aggravated his debilitating chronic skin disease (possibly dermatitis herpetiformis).

During this period, Marat made regular attacks on the more conservative revolutionary leaders. In a pamphlet from 26 July 1790, entitled “C’en est fait de nous” (“We’re done for!”), he warned against counter-revolutionaries, advising, “five or six hundred heads cut off would have assured your repose, freedom, and happiness.”

From 1790 to 1792, Marat frequently had to go into hiding. In April 1792, he married the 26-year-old Simonne Evrard in a common-law ceremony on his return from exile in London, having previously expressed his love for her. She was the sister-in-law of his typographer, Jean-Antoine Corne, and had lent him money and sheltered him on several occasions.

Marat only emerged publicly on the 10 August Insurectin, when the Tuileies Palace was invaded and the royal family forced to shelter within the Legestative Assembly. The spark for this uprising was Karl Wilhelm Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick-Luneberg’s provocative proclamation, which called for the crushing of the Revolution and helped to inflame popular outrage in Paris.

“Marat’s Triumph”: a popular engraving of Marat borne away by a joyous crowd following his acquittal.

Marat was elected to the National Convention in September 1792 as one of 26 Paris deputies although he belonged to no party. When France was declared a republic on 22 September, Marat renamed his L’Ami du peuple as Le Journal de la République française (“Journal of the French Republic”). His stance during the trial of the deposed king Louis XVI was unique. He declared it unfair to accuse Louis for anything before his acceptance of the French Constitution of 1791, and, although implacably believing that the monarch’s death would be good for the people, defended Guillaume-Chrétien de Lamoignon de Malesherbes, the King’s counsel, as a “sage et respectable vieillard” (“wise and respected old man”).

On 21 January 1793, Louis XVI was quillotined, which caused political turmoil. From January to May, Marat fought bitterly with the Girondins, whom he believed to be covert enemies of republicanism. Marat’s hatred of the Girondins became increasingly heated which led him to call for the use of violent tactics against them. The Girondins fought back and demanded that Marat be tried before the Revolutionary Tribunal. After attempting to avoid arrest for several days Marat was finally imprisoned. On 24 April, he was brought before the Tribunal on the charges that he had printed in his paper statements calling for widespread murder as well as the suspension of the Convention. Marat decisively defended his actions, stating that he had no evil intentions directed against the Convention. Marat was acquitted of all charges to the riotous celebrations of his supporters.

The fall of the Girondins on 2 June, helped by the actions of François Hanriot, the new leader of the National Guard, was one of Marat’s last great achievements. Forced to retire from the Convention as a result of his worsening skin disease, he continued to work from home, where he soaked in a medicinal bath. Now that the Montagnards no longer needed his support in the struggle against the Girondins, Robespierre and other leading Montagnards began to separate themselves from him, while the Convention largely ignored his letters.

Marat was in his bathtub on 13 July, when a young woman from Caen, Charlotte Corday, appeared at his flat, claiming to have vital information on the activities of the escaped Girondins who had fled to Normandy. Despite his wife Simonne’s protests, Marat asked for her to enter and gave her an audience by his bath, over which a board had been laid to serve as a writing desk. Their interview lasted around fifteen minutes. He asked her what was happening in Caen and she explained, reciting a list of the offending deputies. After he had finished writing out the list, Corday claimed that he told her, “Their heads will fall within a fortnight”. A statement which she later changed at her trial to, “Soon I shall have them all guillotined in Paris”. This was unlikely since Marat did not have the power to have anyone guillotined. At that moment, Corday rose from her chair, drawing out from her corset the five-inch kitchen knife, which she had bought earlier that day, and brought it down hard into Marat’s chest, where it pierced just under his right clavicle, opening the carotid artery, close to the heart. The massive bleeding was fatal within seconds. Slumping backwards, Marat cried out his last words to Simonne, “Aidez-moi, ma chère amie!” (“Help me, my dear friend!”) and died.

Corday was a Girondin sympathiser who came from an impoverished royalist family – her brothers were émigrés who had left to join the exiled royal princes. From her own account, and those of witnesses, it is clear that she had been inspired by Girondin speeches to a hatred of the Montagnards and their excesses, symbolised most powerfully in the character of Marat. The Book of Days claims the motive was to “avenge the death of her friend Barboroux”. Marat’s assassination contributed to the mounting suspicion which fed the Terror during which thousands of the Jacobins’ adversaries – both royalists and Girondins – were executed on supposed charges of treason. Charlotte Corday was guillotined on 17 July 1793 for the murder. During her four-day trial, she had testified that she had carried out the assassination alone, saying “I killed one man to save 100,000.

Marat’s assassination led to his apotheosis. The painter Jacques-Louis David, a member of one of the two “Great Committees” (the Committee of General Security), was asked to organize a grand funeral. David took up the task of immortalizing Marat in the painting The Death of Marat, beautifying the skin that was discoloured and scabbed from his chronic skin disease in an attempt to create antique virtue. David, as a result of this work, has since been criticized as glorifying the Jacobin’s death. The entire National Convention attended Marat’s funeral and he was buried under a weeping willow, in the garden of the former Club des Cordeliers (former Couvent des Cordeliers). After Marat’s death, he was viewed by many as a martyr for the revolution, and was immortalized in various ways in order to preserve the values he stood for. His heart was embalmed separately and placed in an urn in an altar erected to his memory at the Cordeliers in order to inspire speeches that were similar in style to Marat’s eloquent journalistic skills. On his tomb, the inscription on a plaque read: “Unité, Indivisibilité de la République, Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité ou la mort”.

His remains were transferred to the Panthéon 25 November 1793 and his near messianic role in the Revolution was confirmed with the elegy: Like Jesus, Marat loved ardently the people, and only them. Like Jesus, Marat hated kings, nobles, priests, rogues and, like Jesus, he never stopped fighting against these plagues of the people. The eulogy was given by the Marquis de Sade, delegate of the Section Piques and an ally of Marat’s faction in the National Convention (there is evidence to suggest that shortly before his death Marat had fallen out with de Sade and was arranging for him to be arrested). By this stage de Sade was becoming appalled with the excesses of the Reign of Terror and was later removed from office and imprisoned for “moderatism” on the fifth of December.

On 19 November, the port city of Le Havre-de-Grâce changed its name to Le Havre-de-Marat and then Le Havre-Marat. When the Jacobins started their dechristianisation campaign to set up the Cult of Reason of Hébert and Chaumette and Cult of the Supreme Being of Robespierre, Marat was made a quasi-saint, and his bust often replaced crucifixes in the former churches of Paris.

By early 1795, Marat’s memory had become tarnished. On 13 January 1795, Le Havre-Marat became simply Le Havre, the name it bears today. In February, his coffin was removed from the Panthéon and his busts and sculptures were destroyed. His final resting place is the cemetery of the church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont.

His memory lived on in the Soviet Union. Marat became a common name and the Russian battleship Petropavlovovsk (Russian: Петропавловск) was renamed Marat in 1921. A street in the centre of Sevastopol was named after Marat (Russian: Улица Марата) on 3 January 1921, shortly after the Soviets took over the city.

Described during his time as a man “short in stature, deformed in person, and hideous in face,” Marat has long been noted for physical irregularities. The nature of Marat’s debilitating skin disease, in particular, has been an object of ongoing medical interest. Dr. Josef E. Jelinek noted that his skin disease was intensely itchy, bistering, began in the perianal region, and was associated with weight loss leading to emacation. He was sick with it for the three years prior to his assassination, and spent most of this time in his bathtub. There were various minerals and medicines that were present in his bath while he soaked to help ease the pain caused by his debilitating skin disease. The bandana that is seen wrapped around his head was soaked in vinegar to reduce the severity of his discomfort Jelinek’s diagnosis is dermatitis herpetiformis.

 

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National Day of Commemoration, Royal Hospital, Kilmainham, Dublin

WORLD WAR II: BELFAST AIR RAIDS.HIGH STREET.. 4/5 May 1941.Firemen quelling an outbreak in High Street. AR 75.

Today, 13th July, 2014, the  Lord Mayor of Dublin Christy Burke  attended at the Royal Hospital, Kilmainham  for the National Day of Commemoration ceremonies organised in memory of all Irishmen and Irishwomen who died in past wars or on service with the United Nations.  Participants  usually arrive for this event at 10:30. but the Lord Mayor of Belfast Nichola Mallon arrived at 10:00 for the presentation of a wartime Emergency Service Medal (Air Raid Precautions variant) to Mr. Pierce Moran and I joined her with Charlie Bennett, Secretary of the Somme Association and his wife Mavis.

  

The Chief Fire Officer  outlined the history and citation for the issue for the medal which was then  presented to the fireman, Mr Moran’s son.  The association of the Lord Mayors with the event would be very welcome.  Photographs with the Mayors were taken and then the Mayors  continued on with the arrangements for the National Day ceremonies. 

Mr. Moran is the son of Pierce Moran senior who was a member of the Dublin Fire Brigade Auxiliary Fire Service (AFS). Mr. Moran was attached to Tara Street Fire Station and on the night of 14/15 April 1941 he was one of the Dublin firemen who volunteered to go to Belfast to aid that city after a major German air raid. 

On that night six fire engines from Dublin, three regular fire service and three AFS, traveled to the aid of Belfast along with fire appliances from Dun Laoghaire, Dundalk and Drogheda. Further assistance was sent after another heavy raid on 5 May 1941. 

As the help, given at the request of the Northern Ireland government was in breach of Irish neutrality, few records were kept. Last year a historian Donal Fallon did a piece on his ‘Come Here To Me’  history blog about the firemen who travelled north in 1941 and following on from it, Mr.Moran contacted his site to say that his father had driven one of the engines. Mr Fallon’s father, Las Fallon a specialist in the history of the Dublin Fire service, contacted Mr. Moran and spoke to him. He described how his father had left the fire service prior to the end of the war and therefore had missed out on a medal issued by the government of the day to all who served during the Emergency. Fireman Moran’s service was traced through DFB records.  It was decided to see if it was possible that a medal might still be issued. The Chief Fire Officer, Pat Fleming  lent his support to the project and the Dept. of Defence was informed of the details. 

Thanks to the help of the Dept.of Defence Admin Section  the last Emergency Service Medal for the ARP which was still available was secured and the Chief Officer presented it to Mr. Moran today in recognition of his father’s service during the war and specifically to remember his bravery and the bravery of those members who crossed the border to assist the people of Belfast in their hours of need in April and May 1941.

 

 

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Kilkeel in Iveagh: 12th July, 2014

KILKEEL............................................
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