The Histories & Humanities Journal Volume II

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The Histories and Humanities Journal Volume II, 2011 Published by The Histories and Humanities Journal Comittee. Funded by DU Publications and the Trinity College Dublin Association and Trust. All rights reserved. Copyright Š The Histories and Humanities Journal. All correspondence or complaints should be addressed to: The Editor, Histories and Humanities Journal, Publications Office, House 6, Trinity College, Dublin 2, Republic of Ireland. With special thanks to the School of Histories and Humanities, Trinity College, The Central Societies Committee, Trinity Publications, and The Trinity College Dublin Association and Trust.


The Histories & Humanities Journal Vol. II All Rights Reserved. Š The Histories And Humanities Journal, 2011


Editors in Chief Hannah Cogan Kate Oliver Section editors Niamh Ni Mhaoileoin Faith Nolan Joan Redmond Roisin LaceyMcCormack Anna McGowan

General Manager John Engle Treasurer David Barrett Editor Emeritus Grainne Clear

Copy Editors Michael Barry Grainne Clear Amy Francke Caoimhe Ni Dhonaill Dell Watson

Editor’s note

Continuing a project begun by someone you admire is always a difficult endeavour. For this year’s edition of The Histories and Humanities Journal, we were tasked with building on an outstanding first edition, conceived and created by Grainne Clear. Without he hard work, this journal wouldn’t have come into being, and we hope we’ve done her proud. This year we’ve expanded the History section and added an Art History section to further display the talents of our faculty, whilst continuing to publish outstanding Classics and Archaeology essays. None of this would have been possible without the hard work of Kate Oliver, who served as Editor-in-Chief until January, providing an outstanding foundation on which to build. It is her work that made the publication so succesful. Congratulations to those writers featured here and comiserations to those not chosen. The standard of submitted work was phenomenal and I encourage you to submit again. Many thanks to my outstanding comittee, without your hard work and dedication, it would have been impossible to put the journal together and I’m eternally greatful for your time and comittment to student academic writing. Verba volent, scripta manent. Hannah Cogan

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Contents History A Hibernicised Renaissance: Changes to Irish Culture and Society in the Twelfth Century Caoimhe Ni Dhonaill

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What Kind of Church did the Puritans Think They Belonged To? Mark Lester Did the Years of the Exclusion Crisis Witness the Birth of Party Politics’? Dan Reilly

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In What Ways Were National Identities Formed Between 1870 and 1914? 29 Maeve Casserly The Impact of the First World War on Trinity College, Dublin Elsa Sanchez

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The Rise of the New Right in American Politics Siobhan Margolis

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Art History Artistic Intent Revisited Sue Rainsford

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In What Ways did the Counter-Reformation Affect Painting in Rome Before 1630? 58 Roisin Lacey-McCormack ‘A Bit of Genius’: Ernest Kavanagh, Cartoonist of the Irish Worker James Christopher Curry

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How Did Advances in Building Materials Enable Frank Lloyd Wright to Pursue His Vision of Organic Architecture? 73 Siobhan De Paor

Classics The Voice of the Vanquished in Virgil’s Aeneid Grainne Clear

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The Viability of Roman Imperial Biography Charlie Kerrigan

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Archaeology The Intentional Destruction of Cultural Heritage: A Look at the Case of Afghanistan 81 Yasmin Hamed An Introduction to Mortaria 101 Jennifer Sutton An Artefact Study: The Knossos Throne Room Complex Emma Devereaux

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The ‘Hero Cult’ and the ‘Tomb Cult’ in Early Greek Society Amy Quinn

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The Archaeological Evidence for Leprosy in the Ancient World Louise O’Brien

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History

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A Hibernicised Renaissance: The Changes to Irish Culture and Society in the Twelfth Century Caoimhe Ni Dhonaill

Junior Sophister, History and English During the late eleventh and twelfth century, a number of changes took place in Europe that are now collectively referred to as the TwelfthCentury Renaissance. It was a period of ecclesiastical reform, of political change and consolidation and of literary growth. These changes were the result of a revival of interest in the classical world, which lead to the translation of ancient Greek and Latin works to the vernacular and a surge in Romanesque architecture. Ireland, a country without strong physical and historical links to the classical world, reacted to these transformations in a very particular manner, assimilating European ideas for use in an Irish context. When Emperor Conrad gave safe passage to pilgrims through his land in 1027, it heralded a new era of Irish pilgrims travelling through Europe, and introduced the Irish to the rapidly-evolving European thought and culture in the eleventh and twelfth centuries (Lydon, 1998, p.44). As these early pilgrims travelled through the old Roman Empire, they were exposed to the ancient classical architecture and to contemporary revivals of ancient styles. By the twelfth century, Irish architecture began to reflect these architectural styles. Cormac’s Chapel in Cashel, begun in 1127 and consecrated in 1134, was made in the German Romanesque style by Continental masons (De Paor, 1961, p. 178). Soon churches in the quasi-Romanesque style began to crop up all over Ireland, especially in the south west (De Paor, 1961, p. 180). Irish architects, however, began to hibernicise the Romanesque style and in the 1160s and 1170s churches such as Nun’s Church in Clonmacnoise were built in what is now considered the Hiberno-Romanesque style: a mixture of Romanesque architecture and Scandinavian decoration (De Paor, 1961, p. 180). Such buildings, many of which survive (albeit in ruins), serve as 2


History striking evidence of the influence of the twelfth-century renaissance on the Irish landscape. Irish pilgrims were not only interested in the architecture of Continental Europe, but also, naturally, in the ecclesiastical reforms that were taking place in this time. The reforming movement sought to correct the abuses that were rife in the Church and the Irish church was notoriously full of abuses. St. Barnard is known for calling the Irish “Christians in name, but in fact they were pagans”(Lydon, 1998, p. 48). As the Augustinian, Cistercian and Benedictine orders opened their first monasteries in Ireland ideas of reform were proliferated throughout the country (Lydon, 1988, p. 41). Ecclesiastical leaders such as Archbishop Lanfranc of Canterbury and Pope Gregory VII communicated with Irish secular leaders from as early as 1072, urging them to correct the abuses in the Irish church (Lydon, 1988, p. 45). This tied the question of ecclesiastical reform with political change. The reformers looked to a secure, secular kingship to give the peace and stability needed to bring about reform. The kings themselves looked at ecclesiastical reform as a way of strengthening their own legitimacy to rule. In this way, the ideas of the twelfth-century renaissance were easily appropriated to the needs of the Irish polity. Muirchertach Ó Briain, a high king with opposition, was the first Irish king to organise a synod of reform when in 1101 he held the Synod of Cashel. This synod addressed abuses which were rife throughout the continent, such as simony and celibacy of ordained members of the church (Lydon, 1998, p. 46). However, this synod was most notable in its omissions. It did not deal with any reform of marriage law, which was a particular ‘abuse’ prevalent in Irish lay society. It can be presumed that this is because secular leaders were unwilling to accept an end to divorce and polygamy, pointing to the synod as a politically-motivated use of renaissance ideals. This synod also brought no end to the lay abbots with hereditary positions and also did not bring about any territorial dioceses (Lydon, 1998, p. 46). A second assembly at Rath Breasail in 1111 sought to organise the Irish church along carefully delineated dioceses under the control of bishops (Lydon, 1998, p. 47). This was a huge overhaul of the existing system, where abbots had all the power. The success of this change can be seen in the High Crosses of the twelfth century, which are notably adorned with images of bishops (De Paor, 1961, p. 176 and Hughes, 1966, p. 272). These reforms were presided over by Bishop Gilbert of Limerick, a renowned ecclesiastical scholar, author of De Statu Ecclesiae and papal legate, evidence of papal influence in Ireland (Curtis, 1978, p. 16). The final “great reforming Synod” was held in Kells in 3


History 1152 under Cardinal John Paparo (Hughes, 1966, p. 269). However, as far as James Lydon is concerned, these reforms had “failed to change fundamentally the character of Irish Christianity” (Lydon, 1998, p. 50). Hereditary offices were still common across Ireland and even the European monasticism had become Hibernicised (Lydon, 1988, p. 50). Despite the reform introduced to Ireland in the twelfth century, Ireland remained behind the European status quo, a fact foreign eyes were quick to note. Giraldus Cambrensis’s Topographia Hibernica, to take a particularly vitriolic example, roundly criticises the state of Christianity in Ireland (Cambrensis, 1982, p. 106). It should also be noted that the bull Laudabiliter, supposedly written by Pope Adrian IV in 1156, granted permission to Henry II to invade Ireland expressly “to enlarge the boundaries of the church, to restrain the downward course of vice, to correct evil habits and introduce virtue and to increase the Christian religion” (Lydon, 1998, p. 51). Ecclesiastic reform was not the only way in which Irish secular leaders were responding to ideas from the twelfth-century renaissance. Such changes in the Irish political system, as Dáibhí Ó Cróinín believes, can “with some justification, be described as a parallel to the feudal system that had evolved in England and on the continent” (1995, p. 291). After Brian Boru’s success in uniting most of Ireland under one king, his successors, especially Muirchertach Ó Briain and Toirdelbach Ó Conchubhair, made great developments in the power and role of provincial kings. Far from being nominal heads of the province, they acted as dominus terrae; ‘lord of the land’. They levied taxes on the lands under their control and made and enforced laws. They deposed lesser kings who were against their role and placed puppet kings in their stead (Ó Cróinín, 1995, p. 291). They donated land to churches and authenticated them with Latin charters (Flanagan, 1998, p. 113). These ‘high kings with opposition’ as they were called, were, in short, looking to create an Irish kingdom ruled by one king, like those of France and England. Their ambitions for a national high-kingship can be seen in the holding of the Oénach Tailten, an archaic pagan festival which used to be presided over by the King of Tara. This festival was portrayed by contemporary writers as a celebration of all of Ireland, though it is now believed that it was mainly an event for the Ó Néill kings. However, when Toirdelbach Ó Conchubhair held the Oénach Tailten in 1120 and 1168, his aim was to display his jurisdiction throughout the entire country (Lydon, 1998, p. 51). This period also marks the growth of officials such as the reachtaire (the king’s steward), the taísech luchta tige (head of [the king’s] household) as well as military officers (Ó Cróinín, 1995, p. 291). Irish kings acted as 4


History patrons to ecclesiastical institutions, such as Ruaidrí Ó Conchubhair, who was a patron of the school in Armagh and also gave financial support to the Romanesque building of Tuam and to the Clonfert cathedral door (Ó Cróinín, 1995, p. 56). Seals and charters began to be used, which point towards the development of an increasingly centralized government, and also exhibits a way in which Irish kings began to be influenced by European ideas of monarchy (Lydon, 1998, p. 54 and Flanagan, 1998, p. 113). James Lydon sums it up when he says: “Irish kings, like their European counterparts, were establishing lordship over land, insisting on their rights over holders of major benefices, firmly controlling dependant kings and lords while providing some mechanism for procuring counsel and consent, and developing institutions of government necessary to maintain their control” (Lydon, 1998, p. 55) Despite these innovations, many established aspects of Irish kingship did not change. Pagan inauguration rites were maintained and the kings kept to the traditional Irish law on the matter of marriage and succession (Dunn, 1954, p. 83). There was clearly a conflict between church and state, with the secular kings needing the church as a prop for their legitimacy while still eager to keep the traditional customs alive. Another element of the changes taking place in Continental Europe and mirrored in Ireland was the literary revival. As in Europe, the great works of the Classical World were translated to the vernacular (Dunn, 1954, p. 83). Tógáil Troi was the translated version of the prose Latin tale of the Destruction of Troy. However, it was completely hibernicised and bore more resemblance to the ancient Irish epics than to the original Latin (Dunn, 1954, p. 83). This assimilation or hibernicisation served as a key feature of the Irish twelfth-century literary revival. The renewed interest in the past encouraged an active reappraisal of traditional Irish stories amongst the ecclesiastical sections of Irish society. Irish epics were collected in giant tomes such as the Book of the Dun Cow (revised in 1106) and the Book of Leinster (Dunn, 1954, p. 73-74). Most of the work of this kind was carried out by monks as they were the most literate class (Lydon, 1998, p. 42). The Book of Leinster was written in Irish by Aed Mac Crimthainn, the Abbot of Terryglass and professor (fir leigind) of Literature for Diarmait Mac Murchada (Lydon, 1998, p. 74). However, Mac Crimthainn was well aware of his liminal position between traditional and ecclesiastical roles, as evidenced by the note in Latin he included at the end of his great work, in which he denies belief in any of the stories (Lydon, 1998, p. 74). In his lecture on the twelfth-century renaissance in Ireland, Charles Dunn has analysed the quality of the written work of this time in an attempt 5


History to ascertain whether or not a renaissance occurred in the literature of this period. He concluded that there was a marked improvement in the quality of the poetry during the twelfth centuries which was a re-working of earlier Irish traditional epics. This ‘literary revival’ succeeded “to revive and refurbish the native tradition and to amplify its resources by the assimilation of any alien materials that may prove to be amenable” (Dunn, 1954, p. 85). However, Dunn notes that Ireland did not become interested in the philosophical ideas of the time, nor did the Irish annalists analyse history in the same way that historians in other parts of Europe were doing (1954, p. 85). Interestingly, the ecclesiastical reforms had a negative effect on the literary revival of the period. The twelfth-century reform brought an end to the study of secular Irish history and literature in some church schools (Simms, 1998, p. 242). Reformed religious establishments abandoned compiling annals during this period (Simms, 1998, p. 242). However, while this may have been the case in some establishments, the Irish clergy was still the sector of society most active in literary pursuits. Charles Dunn calls them “too willing to perpetuate a mixed secular and religious culture”(Dunn, 1954, p. 71) and correspondence between Aed mac Crimthainn, an abbot and writer, and a local bishop clearly portrays the clergy’s vast interest in literature (Dunn, 1954, p. 74). It is clear, therefore, that there were many signs that Ireland was responding to the new ideas of kingship, of ecclesiastic reform and of literature that were transforming Europe during the late eleventh and twelfth centuries. However, these European ideals were not merely put into practice in Ireland, but instead assimilated into the Irish culture. Kings emulated their European counterparts while retaining their pagan customs. The church began the reforming process, but still retained a lot of its old abuses. New architectural designs were introduced to Ireland, only to be changed and hibernicised. The Irish took the classical Roman texts and transformed them into pale copies of their own ancient epics. Ireland responded to these new ideas, but was not transformed by them as the rest of Europe was.

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History Bibliography Cambrensis, Giraldus, The History and Topography of Ireland, O’Meara, John (trans.) (Mountrath: The Dolmen Press, 1982) Curtis, Edmund, A History of Medieval Ireland from 1086 to 1513 (London: Methuen and Co Ltd., 1978) De Paor, Máire and Liam, Early Christian Ireland (London: Thames and Hudson, 1961) Dunn, Charles W., ‘Ireland and the twelfth-century renaissance’ in University of Toronto Quarterly, vol. XXIV (1954), pp. 71-86 Flanagan, Marie Therese, ‘The Context and Uses of the Latin Charter in twelfth-century Ireland’ in Pryce, Huw (ed.) Literacy in Medieval Celtic Societies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 113-132 Holland, Martin, ‘Dublin and the Reform of the Irish Church in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’ in Peritia, vol 14 (2000), Ó Corráin, Donnchadh (ed.), pp. 111-160 Hughes, Kathleen, The Church in Early Irish Society (London: Metheun & Co. Ltd., 1966) Lydon, James, The Making of Ireland: from ancient times to the present (London: Routledge, 1998) Ó Córráin, Donnchadh, Ireland before the Normans (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan Ltd, 1972) Ó Cróinín, Dáibhí, Early Medieval Ireland 400-1200 (London: Longman, 1995) Richter, Michael, Medieval Ireland (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan Ltd., 2005) Simms, Katharine, ‘Literacy and the Irish bards’ in Pryce, Huw (ed.) Literacy in Medieval Celtic Societies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998) pp. 238-245 7


What Kind of Church Did the Puritans Think They Belonged Too? Mark Lester

Visiting Student I. Studying Difficult People- The History of the ‘Puritans’ In modern non-academic situations, the term ‘Puritan’ conveys an unambiguous and derogatory picture of solemnity, formality and even frigidity. The term embodies an almost fixed trope in the modern mind, referring to a group of highly religious individuals that emerged in England following the Elizabethan Settlement of 1558 and culminating in the lives of men like William Perkins, Richard Sibbes and Richard Baxter—the great Puritan divines of the seventeenth century. Though the term ‘Puritan’ retains a static place in the twenty-first century mind, it was not a static term in history. This period of English history, more than a century long, saw the establishment and growth of a rich theological tradition. Precisely because no neatly defined group of teetotalers arrayed in muted colors existed at the time of the Elizabethan Succession, we are forced to ask, “Who are the ‘Puritans’?” The origin and development of a group that became known as ‘Puritans’ and their delicate relationship with the Elizabethan church has captivated historians, sociologists, and theologians alike, and figures prominently in historiography. Much of the historiography of ‘Puritanism’ has been dominated by two opposing confessional perspectives. Peter Lake argues that both of these schools seized on the Puritan distinctive in an attempt to understand and explain integral parts of their own self-identity. At stake for the ‘extrinsic school’, a set of “almost entirely secular-minded scholars”, were “certain aspects of modernity” to which they were deeply committed. The so called ‘intrinsic school’ valued “certain religious beliefs and experiences, ecclesiological traditions and denominational identities” (Lake, 1984, p. 350). While not devoid of ideological pitfalls, the work of historians like Patrick Collinson, Peter Lake, and Anthony Milton has helped clarify our historical understanding of the ‘Puritans’ by presenting a nuanced study of the term 8


History itself and the crucial periods of English Elizabethan ecclesiastical history. While undoubtedly this focused historiography paints a more realistic picture of the era, when compared to a static twenty-first century understanding of the word ‘Puritan’, this new work has made understanding English history more—not less—difficult. Indeed, the value of the term itself to frame historical questions and analysis is not self-evident. If, as Collinson has argued, Puritanism was invented in the late sixteenth century, what use is the category for the historian? Since ideas are diachronic, ‘Puritanism’ provides a necessary lens to trace the historical threads of theological, political and sociological distinctive from their conception until the publication of the Westminster Confession in 1646. As Lake argues, “There is plenty of evidence, literary and otherwise, that both puritans and their contemporaries could recognize a member of the godly when they saw one” (1984, pg. 116). But even Collinson admits that the invention of a term “does not mean that something has been made up out of nothing” (2008, 21). For the sake of historical structure, Margo Todd has summarized the prevailing criterion for defining and identifying Puritans as “those within the Protestant state church with an agenda for further protestantisation (or purification) of that church” (2008, 117). Though the term may be a later identifier, it serves as a useful category for identifying individuals with a particular understanding of Elizabethan ecclesiology. This brings us at long last to the main focus of this paper, ‘What sort of church did the Puritans think they belonged to and want to belong to?’ The Reformist conception of the true church is commonly said to consist of true preaching of the Word of God, proper administration of the sacraments, and exercise of Church discipline. This ecclesial understanding is articulated in continental expressions of the Reformed faith. The French Confession of Faith (1559) states that the true church is “the company of the faithful who agree to follow his word, and the pure religion which it teaches; who advance in it all their lives, growing and becoming more confirmed in the fear of God” (Fielde, 1617, p. 1). The Belgic Confession of 1561 is even more explicit, “The marks, by which the true Church is known, are these: if the pure doctrine of the gospel is preached therein; if she maintains the pure administration of the sacraments as instituted by Christ; if church discipline is exercised in punishing of sin” (Schaff, 1878, p. 29). With this in mind, the English debates over church hierarchy and presbyteries provide a useful focus, shedding light on the puritan understanding of the Elizabethan Church and their hopes for further reformation. 9


History II. Bishops and a Reformed Church Hierarchy The debates with the Elizabethan Church over the nonconformist backed Presbyterian system of government first came to a head in the early 1570s. Those years saw the publication of the John Field’s and Thomas Cartwright’s Admonition to the Parliament (1571) and William Travers A full and plaine declaration of ecclesiastical discipline (1574). These two poignant examples of nonconformist discontent were based not only on issues of church discipline, but the structure and hierarchy of the English church. These continued older critiques of the Elizabethan Episcopacy particularly the corruption of the bishops. One man wrote to Scambler of Peterborough saying, “Remember, my lord, how before you were bishop you would find fault with negligence of bishops, how much you cried out to have preachers and good ministers to be increased and carefully placed. And so did you all almost that be now bishops” (Collinson, 1967, p. 64). The criticism of the English bishopric was longstanding amongst Marian exiles, nonconformists and eventually puritans. Scambler’s letter is a telling example of how early in the Elizabethan Settlement reform minded individuals viewed the English Church as a the church of God. Had they been in fundamental disagreement with Settlement, such large numbers of Marian exiles from the staunchest reformed Swiss and German cities would not have become active members of the episcopate hierarchy. They saw it as a true church, but “halfly reformed” (Collinson, 1967, p. 29) having it in their minds to bring the further purification of the episcopate offices. Had they abandoned these offices to others, the church would have certainly suffered. Scambler’s note hints at the failure of these first generation continentally minded leaders to bring effective reform of the episcopate office, ultimately leading to the Admonition. The preface to the Admonition describes the catholic hierarchy of “the Lordly Lords, Archbishops, Bishops, Suffragans, Deanes, university Doctors, and Batchelors of Divinityie, Archdeacons, Chancelors” whose “tyrannous Lordship cannot stand with Christ’s kingdom” (Field, 1571). Of particular issue for non-conformists was the distinction between preacher and bishop, a distinction many saw as being without biblical merit. Calvin tended to define the bishop, priest, pastor and minister as forms of “one office and order” (Collinson,1967, p. 108) But here, perhaps, Calvin had not gone far enough for some English puritans, since he “acknowledged the long tradition that lay behind the subordination of some ministers to others for the sake of order” (Collinson, 1967, p. 104). In the Puritan estimation, not only did splitting of the ‘pastor’ into a hierarchy create corruption, it created functional differentiation between pastors and bishops. 10


History William Travers argued that “if the offices of Bishops & Archbishops be the same in substance with pastors and teachers, then is their power one and equal with theirs” (Travers, 1588, p. 88). If, however, the substance of their office differed from that of a preacher, the biblical justification for the position becomes dubious at best. While the Puritans wanted the English church to be wholly reformed, what this meant is ambiguous. On the surface the puritan writers during the time of the presbytery debates seemed to want a hierarchy of church structure and discipline modeled after the churches in Geneva. After all it was Calvin’s Ecclesiastical Ordinances of 1541 that organized the church so well with pastors, doctors, elders and deacons and structured them within the consistorial system for church discipline (p.74). Additionally, in the opening pages of the Admonition, Fielde readily invokes comparison with the “best reformed Churches throughout Christendome” (Fielde, 1571). This intrinsic reliance upon the continental model of clerical structure, however, needs to be questioned. The Puritans who sought to reform the Episcopal structure further were not alone in their reliance on the reformed churches on the continent. The early Marian exiles who filled many of the churches bishoprics and benefices also claimed a ‘continental distinctiveness.’ Moreover, even Calvin had expressed in correspondence that he thought diocesan church government could be admissible (Collinson, 1967, p. 104). Collinson argues that by insisting upon a continental church structure and church discipline in light of Calvin’s tolerance is an indication that “Presbyterians replaced pragmatism with dogma” (Collinson, 1967, p. 105). If, like Milton argues, a Reformed identity was not a puritan monopoly, and both sides identified with foreign Reformed churches, arguing “tit-for-tat quotations from foreign divines” (Milton, 2008, p. 111), then this is not a clear example of dogmatic insistence. The controversy over church government in the episcopacy and presbytery debates was not dogmatic in its approach to the bishops, but rather an example of Puritan pragmatism to address a particular issue. The issue had always been clerical corruption in the hierarchy, and following the failure of Marian exiles to reform the aforementioned hierarchy, the ‘godly’ began to insist upon the institution of a church government and discipline modeled around the Reformed churches on the continent. The Puritan identity was not bound up in a particular Episcopal structure, rather it was found in a desire for a godly and uncorrupted leadership.

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History III. Reproof, Purity and The ‘Godly’ Men Ultimately, however, the debates in the 1570’s were about the execution of church discipline. As we have noted above, “ecclesiastical discipline, which consisteth in admonition and correction of faults seuerely” (Fielde, 1571). was the third sign of the true church. While it may be possible to consider a pragmatic puritan approach to church hierarchy, we must also consider the role of discipline. In the reformed faith, church discipline existed to protect the integrity of the Communion Table. Charles Perot expresses this fundamental idea in his advice to his successor, “If there is a really clear allegation of blasphemy, drunkenness, adultery, and if the charge, as far as you can judge, is well-founded and the offence proven, you should refer it to the Consistory in the city, because it is there that the safeguard on the Lord’s Supper is upheld, not in the village” (Perrot, p. 50). By guarding the Lord’s Table the church was protecting the “seal” of “his grace to us”, the very image of the Gospel itself (Bullinger and Calvin, 1549, p. 129). In order to understand the Puritan view of Elizabethan church discipline it is imperative to examine the nature and role of the English ecclesiastical courts during the period. As we discussed above, the English church conducted ecclesiastical government at the “diocesan and archidiaconal levels” (Collinson, 1967, p. 38). Though Henry VIII had added six new bishoprics, as compared with the continental reformed churches, these were areas far too vast for any meaningful pastoral care. Collinson notes what should have been pastoral care was replaced by absentee bishops “who in the post-Reformation period were more often than not laymen, civil lawyers whose attitude can be described without prejudice as professional rather than evangelical” (Collinson, 1967, p. 39). These individuals made up the ecclesiastical courts that continued to operate through the reformation. Particularly heinous for the reformed minded individual was the Roman, and not biblical, grounding of the exercise of ecclesiastical jurisprudence. Add to this its vestigial character as a disorganized remnant of Henrician Catholicism and one can well understand the Puritan Thomas Lever’s report, “No discipline is as yet established by any public authority” (Collinson, 1967, p. 39). On the surface these ecclesiastical courts performed a similar function to reformed church discipline, by calling Christians to stand judgment for their actions dealing with them accordingly. A crucial issue arose, in that while the courts performed these functions, it seems many had ceased to take them seriously. Records indicate that absenting from a court summons was regular fare (Collinson, 1967, p. 40). As a result, excommunication—the ‘safeguard’ of the Communion Table—which should have been the churches 12


History strongest form of discipline was devalued. Excommunication became standard fare for failing to appear before the court when summoned. Indeed, having been thus censured by the court not many took it seriously enough to seek absolution (Collinson, 1967, p. 40). This shattered system of ecclesiastical discipline was but a shadow of the Reformed understanding of ecclesiastical discipline. Even though Fielde writes in the Admonition, “it must be confessed that the substance of doctrine by many deliured is sound and good” (Fielde, 1571), at the heart of this work is a strong ecclesial demand. “That excommunication be restored to his olde former force. That papists nor other, neither constrainedly nor customably, communicate in the misteries of salvation. That both the Sacrament of the Lordes supper and Baptisme also, may be ministred according to the ancient puritie & simplicitie” (Fielde, 1571). The failure of the church to execute proper church discipline motivated profound moments of debate about a Presbyterian structure for the English church. Some puritans wanted to replace the broken system and instead “Plant in every congregation a powerful and godly seigniorial consistory of the minister acting in association with lay elders or magistrates” (Ingram, 1996, p. 63). This was at the heart of the Admonition to Parliament written by John Fielde, and supplemented by decontextualized letters from Reformed pastors on the continent. The puritans hoped to close the gap between the failings of English discipline and the model of reform. A well known section of the Admonition conveys their plea, “Is a reformation food for France? and can it be evyl for England? Is discipline meete for Scotland? and is it unprofitable for this Realme? Surely God hath set these examples before your eyes to encourage you to go foreward to a thorow and speedy reformation” (Fielde, 1571). As a prime example, both Puritans and Elizabethan churchmen only had to look as far as London. Reformed congregations in the city were organized around French, Dutch, Italian and Spanish refuges (Collinson, 1967, p. 114). Though some English Puritans had been directly involved in Reformed congregations on the continent during the Marian exile, the ‘stranger’ churches in London helped maintain the personal, political and theological links between the Puritans and the continental reformers. Under the Elizabethan church these congregations fell under the jurisdiction of the bishop of London. Under the care of Edmund Grindal—a man sympathetic with the continental Reformed church—“little restriction was placed on their local autonomy, and none on their freedom to follow their own reformed orders of worship and assembly” (Ingram, 1996, p. 114). The stranger 13


History churches were granted a degree of freedom to practice a Reformed ecclesiology that the English Puritans were never allowed. Collinson even goes so far as to argue that “Puritans seem to have felt more affinity with their foreign co-religionists than with fellow Englishmen who were of a contrary religious persuasion or name” (Collinson, 1985, p. 212). IV. The Puritan Church within a Church Their hope was never fulfilled, however, as the push for a Presbyterian Church hierarchy and consistorial discipline fell short of effecting change in the English Parliament or with Elizabeth. Despite these failures, and their lingering distaste for structures of the Elizabethan Church, the Puritans turned inward to create a community within the church. This tight knit community focused upon intimate interaction with other ‘godly’ Christians, preaching and a strong sense of internalized discipline. The diary of the Puritan divine Richard Rogers gives perhaps an unintended glimpse into the mind of a Puritan and the functions of his life. Rogers entries reveal a Puritan minister who met with other Puritans and strove, apparently fervently, to live up to the characterization of the ‘godly.’ He writes that he would like to have “a good name with the godlier sort, communion with them” (Rogers, 1587, p. 61). This ‘godlier sort’ of protestant, came to be known for their strong zeal in the practice of religion. As even the Appellation concedes, very few strong differences existed in the tenants of theological understanding. Lake argues that Puritans are “rather more likely to have expressed generally held contemporary norms with a greater zeal than their more Laodicean or worldly contemporaries could muster” (Lake, 1984, p. 114). As an Elizabethan pamphleteer points out, “The hotter sort of protestants are called Puritans” (Collinson, 1967, p. 27). Nothing represents this heat better than the internalized form of personal discipline that we witness in the Rogers diary. Each entry painstakingly inventories and evaluates various areas of his life that he sees as criterion of spiritual wellness. On one day he testifies that in conversation “I lost nothinge of any good thing which I caryed thither with me, save at the ende a little speach of some unkindness betwixt me and him” (Rogers, 1587, p. 62). As Collinson argues, “the modern observer who comes close to the heart of the matter in the surviving Puritan divines of the period discovers this religion in a thoroughly internalized form.” (Collinson, 1982, p. 251). In the Puritan mindset, this highly personal religion could only exist and be maintained in an intimate community. Nicholas Bownd, when speaking on the Sabbath wrote that “So though every man hath some grace 14


History of God’s spirit in himself, yet it is greatly increase by conference” (Collinson, 1967, p. 372). If anyone was able to identify with Calvin’s invective against the Genevans, it would have been Rogers and the Puritans. Calvin declared that “we are never so guiltless in the eyes of God that he does not have good reason to punish us” (Calvin, p. 32). The Puritan reaction to such a doctrine of radical depravity drove them to seek in their inner community positive reinforcements to assure one another of their own salvation. Their rejection of the English church hierarchy revealed a pragmatic attempt to advocate for a pure church government free of clerical corruption. Additionally, their advocacy of consistorial church discipline signalled a commitment to the purity

15


History Bibliography Bullinger, Heinrich, and John Calvin. “Zurich Consensus,” 1549. Calvin, John. “Sermon on Micah” Coffey, John, and Paul Chang-Ha Lim, eds. The Cambridge Companion to Puritanism. Cambridge companions to religion. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Collinson, Patrick. “Antipuritanism.” In The Cambridge Companion to Puritanism, edited by John Coffey and Paul Chang-Ha Lim, 21-33. Cambridge companions to religion. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2008. ———. “English and international Calvinism, 1558-1640.” In International Calvinism, 1541-1715, edited by Menna Prestwich, 198-216. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985. ———. The Elizabethan Puritan Movement. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967. ———. The Religion of Protestants: The Church in English Society, 15591625. Ford lectures 1979. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982. “Ecclesiastical Ordinances of Geneva,” 1541. Fielde, John, Thomas Cartwright, and T. W. An Admonition to the Parliament Holden in the 13. Yeare of the Reigne of Queene Elizabeth of Blessed Memorie Begun Anno 1570. and Ended 1571. Leiden: Imprinted by William Brewster, 1617. French Confession of Faith, 1559. Ingram, Martin. “Puritans and the church courts, 1560-1640.” In The Culture of English Puritanism, 1560-1700, edited by Christopher Durston and Jacqueline Eales, 58-91. 1st ed. New York, N.Y: St. Martin’s Press, 1996.

16


History Lake, Peter. “Puritan Identities.” Journal of Eccelsiastical History 35, no. No. I ( January 1984): 112-123. ———. “‘The historiography of Puritanism’.” In The Cambridge Companion to Puritanism, edited by John Coffey and Paul Chang-Ha Lim, 346-367. Cambridge companions to religion. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Milton, Anthony. Catholic and Reformed: The Roman and Protestant Churches in English Protestant Thought, 1600-1640. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. ———. “Puritanism and the contintental Reformed Churches.” In The Cambridge Companion to Puritanism, edited by John Coffey and Paul Chang-Ha Lim, 110-126. Cambridge companions to religion. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Perrot, Charles. “Managing a Genevan Country Parish.” Rogers, Richard. “Diary,” 1587. Schaff, Philip. Bibliotheca symbolica ecclesiæ universalis. Harper & brothers, 1878. Todd, Margo. “The problem of Scotland’s Puritans.” In The Cambridge Companion to Puritanism, edited by John Coffey and Paul Chang-Ha Lim, 175-188. Cambridge companions to religion. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2008. Travers, Walter. A Defence of the Ecclesiastical Discipline Ordayned of God to Be Vsed in His Church Against a Replie of Maister Bridges, to a Briefe and Plain Declaration of It, Which Was Printed An[no]. 1584. Which Replie He Termeth, A Defence of the Gouernement Established in the Church of Englande, for Ecclesiasticall Matters. Middelburg: Printed by Richard Schilders, 1588.

17


Did the Years of the Exclusion Crisis Witness the Birth of Party Politics? Dan Reilly

Junior Sophister, History and Political Science “[Party] is a body of men united, for promoting by their joint endeavours the national interest, upon some particular principle in which they are all agree.”-Edmund Burke Edmund Burke wrote his definition of a political party almost a century after the Exclusion crisis but his quotation was germane to the rival Whig and Tory factions of the 1680s. This essay will argue that the exclusion crisis witnessed the birth of British party politics and will discuss the tactics, campaigning and personnel of both parties as well as focusing on the key issues and principles over which they differed. Discussion on the emergence of party politics during this period depends on how rigid a definition of party we adopt. Certainly there continued to be some fluidity in political allegiances and the structure of parties were not as well developed as they were to become during the late eighteenth century (Harris, 1993, p. 82). Nevertheless, the revelations of the Popish plot and divergent attitudes towards the succession of the Catholic Duke of York did produce a polarisation between two fairly well identified sides, both of which had distinctive political ideologies and possessed a rudimentary degree of organisation- a situation which by contemporary standards can appropriately be described as a party political conflict (Harris, 1993, p. 82). The decade leading up to the Popish plot and the Exclusion crisis witnessed deepening fissures within the English polity. Mostly these were the result of growing anxiety over King Charles II’s political and religious agendas and their likely impact on both foreign and domestic politics. Among those objectives were the King’s rumoured fondness for France and a high regard for Catholicism, those rumours were based on fact, the King con18


History cluded a secret treaty with the French in 1672 known as the Treaty of Dover in which he effectively an alliance and his conversion to Catholicism (Southcombe, 2010, p. 43). Two main events acted as contributory factors to the exclusion crisis. The first was the enacting of the 1673 Test Act, which required all office holders to take annual communion in the Church of England and take the oaths of supremacy. This revealed that James; The Duke of York was a Roman Catholic, because he refused to take the Oath and was ejected from the admiralty. The second contributing factor to the Exclusion Crisis was the Popish Plot of 1678, a supposed conspiracy to murder the King in order to bring about the succession of James. This engulfed the nation in anti-Catholic hysteria. While the plot was eventually revealed to be a complete fabrication, both houses of parliament voted unanimously that, “There had been and still is a domestic and hellish plot continued on by the Popish recusants for the assassinating and murdering the King and for subverting the government and for rooting out and destroying the Protestant religion (Smith, 1998, p. 51). Political opinion reacted so sharply to these developments that the King had no choice but to dissolve the “Cavalier” parliament in January 1679, after sixteen sessions and almost eighteen years. The plot drew together concerns which had worried Englishmen since the Restoration; the maintenance of the country’s religion, her tradition of self-government, her integrity as a nation against foreign interference and above all, the security of the law (Seaward, 1991, p. 109). The next three parliaments that were called between 1679 and 1681 were dominated by an attempt to exclude the Duke of York from the throne. Exclusion was viewed by its proponents as essential because they felt that the ‘lives, liberties and estates’ of Protestants could not be safe under a Popish successor (Harris, 1993, p. 85). James, unable to rely on the support of his Protestant subjects, would have to abandon parliament and rule through a standing army (Seaward, 1991, p. 109). This concern echoed in some of the pamphlets during this period. A Most Serious Expostulation to my Fellow Citizens explained it thus: “It is not too notoriously known that the Duke hates our parliament: If he succeeds adieu to all parliaments, must you not expect to be ruled by force?” Exclusionists argued that subjects obeyed their King partly as a matter of religious conscience; if he was of a different religion the bonds of obedience would be broken, they said (Harris, 1993, p. 85). The issue of exclusion became the divisive issue within parliament during this period, but exclusion 19


History as an issue became much more relevant and divisive because of the way in which other broader issues latched onto it (Southcombe, 2010, p. 50). It was around these issues which were either pre-existing or dormant since the civil wars of the 1640s or the Restoration in 1660 that the Whig and Tory ideologies emerged, and thus brought about the birth of party politics. The Exclusion crisis transformed the nature of political struggle in Britain. Instead of division among the King’s advisers now it was between the ministers of the crown (Court) on one hand and some elements of the parliament backed by popular opposition (Country) on the other (Clark, 1995, p. 101). It is from here that we see the birth of the structure of party politics. It is worth examining the ideological polarisation that took place among both factions. The two parties embodied contrasting attitudes not only to the issue of exclusion, but to the whole nature of Kingship, parliament and the ancient constitution. Among the most prominent proponents of exclusionism were the Earl of Shaftesbury and Lord Russell who were labeled by their enemies as “Whigs”, a jibe which indicated roots in allegedly subversive Scottish Presbyterianism, though the term later became mainstream. The Whigs campaigned on a twin platform of excluding the Duke of York from the throne and religious toleration for all Protestants. As well, they espoused an essentially contractual view of government where political authority should be for the good of the people, and that the King derived his authority from the consent of the people. “Every form of government is of our creation and not God’s, and must comply with the safety of the people in all that it can” (Thomas, 1680, pp. 9-16). The Whigs argued that political authority was shared between King, Lords and Commons. Shaftesbury writing in 1679 claimed; “The Parliament of England is the supreme and absolute power, which gives life and motion to the English government” (Ashley, 1689, p. 5). Many Whigs also believed in the right of subjects to resist their sovereign if he abused his power and failed in his duties and obligations towards the law. Those values were reflected in John Locke’s ‘Second Treatise of Government’, which was just written under the patronage of Shaftesbury. Locke advanced an essentially contractual theory of government based on the ideas of the equality of men, popular sovereignty, the law of nature and the right to resist (Smith, 1998, p. 51). “Allegiance being nothing but an obedience according to law which when he violates, he has no right to obedience...I say using force upon the people without authority, and contrary to the trust put in him that does so, is a state of war with the people” (Locke, 1698, pp. 283-286). The Whig position embraced many of the grievances voiced by the 20


History country opposition in the 1670s. They focused on the presence of paid stooges in parliament known as placemen, as well corruption and bribery. They also sought annual parliaments (Harris, 1993, p. 85). The majority of the Whigs constantly assured they had no intention of diminishing royal power. If James was excluded, then his replacement would continue with such powers and prerogatives as Charles II had possessed. Many Whigs saw their aims as preventing the violence and instability of Popery rather than supporting the violence and instability of rebellion (Seaward, 1991, p. 101). On the other side of the political divide Anti-Exclusionists who supported the King and the accession of the Duke of York, the Whigs derisively labeled them ‘Tories’- named after the Irish Catholic rebels of 1641. The Tories opposed religious toleration for dissenters, staunchly supported the royal prerogative and hereditary succession as well as rejecting the Whig principle of mixed government by consent, regarding it as, “a breach upon the best government; to assert that the sovereign power lieth in the commons” (Advice, 1681, p. 2). A distinctive Tory identity centred on an attachment to Church and State as by law established. They believed that English monarchs ruled by divine-right and hereditary succession could not be broken. They refuted the Whig argument that government was a contract between the King and his people. Most importantly the Tories supported the idea of passive obedience; that under no circumstances a sovereign should be resisted for the King is accountable only to God. Robert Filmer’s ‘Patriarcha’, written during the 1630s and published at the height of the exclusion crisis is a classic defence of Tory values upholding the principles of divine right monarchy, royal prerogative powers and patriarchalism and insisted on the subject’s duty of passive obedience. “I see not then how the children of Adam, or of any man can be free from subjugation to their parents, and this subjection of children being the foundation of all regal authority, by the ordination of God himself...there is and always shall be continued to the end of the world, a natural right of a supreme father over a multitude” (1680, p. 12, 23). Many Tories were united by a sense of Cavalier loyalty from the days of Charles I and the civil war. A monarchy whose sanctity had been enhanced by the martyrdom of Charles I had no right to be interfered with by parliament, the Tories argued (Seaward, 1991, p. 111). Each party claimed to represent the interests of the nation and denounced the other as a selfseeking and subversive faction ( Jones, 1979, p. 198). The Whigs viewed the Tories as subservient creatures to the Duke of York and sympathetic to Ca21


History tholicism ( Jones, 1979, p. 200). The Whig cause was portrayed by the Tories as an attempt to dismiss the monarchy and revive the republic. It wasn’t just constitutional issues that divided both parties. Divergent attitudes on the issue of religious dissent and the power and role of the Church of England acted as crucial elements in defining both parties. Examination of the respective attitudes towards the Church and the issue of Protestant dissent show a wide ideological gulf (Harris, 1993, p. 108). While the majority of Whigs were members of the Church of England, they nevertheless championed the cause of Protestant dissent against what they saw as the intolerant high Anglican establishment. They were also concerned for the liberty of Protestants not just under a future Catholic monarch but the current King as well. The Tories, supported by the vast majority of the Anglican clergy had viewed the Whigs and their non-conformist allies as greater threats to the established church than a Catholic successor. The Duke of York, despite his open Catholicism, was perceived by his Tory supporters as a tower of strength against disruptive dissenters (Southcombe, 2010, p. 56). Tories bolstered their stance as defenders of true Protestantism by citing acts of parliament which enshrined the existence of the Church of England. “The Protestant religion is sufficiently guarded by several acts of parliament which he can never repeal” (Southcombe, 2010, p. 56). The Established Church which had so resolutely defended monarchical legitimacy during the civil War could remain true to its principles only through standing by James’s right to succession. This can be seen in the Lords, where the bishops blocked every attempt at exclusion (Seaward, 1991, p. 110). It has been argued that the political pressure mounted by the Whigs for the exclusionist cause took on a distinctly anti-Episcopalian tone. Yet the historians Southcombe and Tapsell have argued convincingly that the bulk of the moderate Whigs were not opposed to the existence of bishops in the church per se, they simply wanted prelates to spend more time acting as pastors and less as politicians apparently trying to bolster the Stuart’s arbitrary pretensions (Southcombe, 2010, p. 51). Tory pamphlets labeled Whigs as religious fanatics hell bent on destroying the established Church of England. “[A Fanatic] puts on religion, as a cloak and so makes his impostures with holiness to the lord...He that would gain by deceit, must acquire a credit, by a slew of integrity” (Fanatick, 1681) The crux of the Tory argument Whigs believed, was that, “One would think he disgusted the reformed faith for nothing more, than that it doth not by some modern dispensation censure dissenters with fire and fagottt, according to ancient Popish principle” (Thorough Pac’d Tory, 1682, p. 1). 22


History It should be noted that there was some common ground between Whigs and Tories in that both parties had an ingrained fear and hatred of Catholicism. What defined and divided both parties was over where the threat of Popery was coming from. The Tories felt that the Whig pursuit of toleration would seriously undermine the integrity of the Church of England and would inevitably work to the advantage of Catholics (Harris, 1993, p. 99). On the other side the Whigs believed that the Duke of York would impose Catholicism on his subjects through arbitrary rule. Despite standing by a Catholic successor, the Tories and naturally enough their clerical allies were as fervently anti-Catholic as their Whig opponents. John Nalson’s pamphlet ‘The true Protestant’s appeal to the city and country’ summarises the Tory viewpoint on religion: “All honest men, believe the Popish plot and have a detestation both against the principles and practices of Popery. But the commonwealth Protestants had used the plot to play their own game. Namely the alteration and ruine of the government established in Church and State” (Nalson, 1681, p. 2). The whole future of the Church of England was up for debate, both in terms of the powers afforded its hierarchy and the breadth of its comprehension. Such conflict was only possible because of its intersection with the exclusion crisis (Southcombe, 2010, p. 51). Even though the issues of religious dissent and role of the Established Church were salient throughout the seventeenth century, they nevertheless played their part in shaping party politics during the 1680s. It is worth examining the campaigning, propaganda and organisation of both parties. The Exclusion crisis represented a vital period of coalescence (Southcombe, 2010, p. 55). Not only did the terms “Whig” and “Tory” rapidly gain widespread recognition as denominating set positions, like-minded men increasingly associated together in clubs and taverns (Southcombe, 2010, p. 55). Many Whigs encouraged the burning of Papal effigies and during the absence of parliaments, they tried to stimulate other representative institutions to carry on the struggle against popery (Seaward, 1991, p. 107). From December 1679 there were petitioning campaigns for the meeting of a new Parliament. One such petition from London collected 16,000 signatures. The populist and lively aspects of the Whig campaign were particularly effective in maintaining the excitement and momentum of the exclusion campaign when it might, in the absence of parliament, have decayed (Seaward, 1991, p. 115). The Tories served as active and aggressive auxiliaries against the Whigs and while they were initially not as active as their enemies in pro23


History moting their cause outside parliament from 1681 on there was a growth in Tory out of doors campaigning which culminated in what is now known as the “Tory Reaction”. This was a combination of royal prerogative powers and Tory activity in assaulting religious dissent, purging the London authorities of Whigs and essentially driving them into the political wilderness. This process began with the Tories adopting many Whig techniques in their own style. They expanded their support base outside the court and the Church of England by swallowing their distaste for popular politics. These techniques included loyal addresses and presbyter burnings on important anniversaries marking Restoration day and the execution of Charles I. Party discipline also manifested itself in the instructions for newly elected Tory MPs to, “Use their utmost endeavours to preserve the government of church and state as by law established” (Certain Proposals, 1681). The propaganda of both the Whig and Tory parties are worth examining. They reveal interesting insights into the principles and beliefs of both parties as well as the hostile atmosphere of the inter-party conflict. With the accidental lapse in 1679 of the Act which regulated the publishing trade, a torrent of pamphlets and books about the Exclusion crisis poured from the presses (Seaward, 1991, pp. 106).. A particularly telling form of publication at this time was ‘The Character’. These were tracts which sought in polemical terms to describe the characteristics of their enemies, often in a relentlessly extreme manner (Southcombe, 2010, p. 54). “Dissenters had governed with the most arbitrary injustice imaginable; they had overturned normal constitutional procedures and set up at their uncontrolled will and pleasure as theirs and our only law” (Nalson, 1681, pp 4-5). Nalson’s pamphlets exemplify the essence of Tory propaganda in that by alleging that the exclusionists intended to revive the Commonwealth, the Tories were able to suggest that the Whigs were the true promoters of arbitrary government (Harris, 1993, p. 106). Whig Propaganda was often fiercely anti-clerical, urging constituents that they should not listen to the opinions of their clergy when it came to politics (Nalson, 1681, pp 4-5). “Popery will add to their benefices, Absolution money, indulgence money and a hundred other prerequisites, besides all the abbey lands and taken nothing from them but their wives” (Dialogue, 1681). Clubs, relentless petitioning and propaganda all played an important role in the mobilisation of public opinion. The activities of both parties evinced a degree of organisation that was impressive and sophisticated by the standards of the day (Harris, 1993, p. 84) and supports the argument this period witnessed the genesis of party politics. Divisions however, undoubtedly existed within both parties during 24


History this period. Paul Seaward has argued that even at Westminster, the Whigs were never a ‘party’ in the modern sense and that exclusion was more of a sentiment than a movement (Seaward, 1991, p. 113). He further argues that the apparently uncomplicated demand of exclusion around which the Whigs united, could divide them because there were differences in opinion over who should replace James; York’s firmly Protestant daughter Mary or James, Duke of Monmouth, who was the King’s illegitimate son (Seaward, 1991, p. 113). There was also a clash of personality within the ranks of the Whig movement. The authority of leading Whigs such as Shaftesbury and Russell was often challenged by the likes of William Jones and Silius Titus. The movement was also divided between conservatives who merely wanted exclusion and wished to preserve the status quo on other issues and radical republicans such as Algernon Sidney who were eager to promote the wider attack on Popery and arbitrary power while insisting on parliamentary and popular liberties rather than focusing more narrowly on exclusion (Seaward, 1991, p. 113). Toryism was no more unified than Whiggism (Seaward, 1991, pp. 112). The reaction against Whiggism was provoked by a horror of violent political change. Many Tories didn’t necessarily approve of James’s politics or religion and even within the Tory dominated government, there were deep divisions (Seaward, 1991, p. 112).. The Earl of Halifax had a reputation for being a moderate and was labeled abusively a “Trimmer” for his views. Halifax had favoured limitations on the royal prerogative if James succeeded to the throne and his personal friendship with William of Orange aroused the distrust of Ormonde and Guildford; who were prominent during the civil war and were thought of as “Old guard” Tories. Other leading Tories such as Lawrence Hyde, the Earl of Rochester (from 1681) who was the Duke’s brother in law, obviously knew him personally. Tim Harris argues that in certain respects the political outlook of the Tories was similar to the Whigs, particularly between moderate Tories and conservative leaning Whigs (Harris, 1993, p. 112). They both claimed to be against Popery and arbitrary government and regarded themselves as defenders of (what they saw) as Parliament’s true role in the constitution (Seaward, 1991, p. 112). The period of the exclusion crisis did however witness the birth of party politics. Jones argues that the Whigs and Tories were unmistakably parties, as political units they were far more coherent, disciplined, organised and united than mere aggregates of groups based on family or territorial connections ( Jones, 1979, p. 198). Despite evident divisions within the ranks 25


History factions, there was nevertheless a consensus on the issues of exclusion and religious dissent and agreement that their opponents were behaving contrary to the national interest. While it is important to avoid projecting modern standards of party membership, organisation and coherence onto the more chaotic and fluid situations of the 1680s, the exclusion crisis nevertheless saw the emergence of embryonic parties characterised by identifiable ideological positions (Smith, 1998, p. 251).

26


History Bibliography Clarke, George, The Later Stuarts: 1660-1714 (Oxford, 1934). Harris, Tim, Politics Under the later Stuarts: Party Conflict in a Divided Society 1660-1715 (Essex, 1993). Jones, J.R., The Restored Monarchy 1660-1688 (London, 1979). Jones, J.R., Court and Country: England 1658-1714 (London, 1979). Miller, John, After the Civil Wars: English Politics and Government in the reign of Charles II (Essex, 2000). Sabine, George, A History of Political Theory (Illinois, 1973). Smith, David, A History of the Modern British Isles (Oxford, 1998). Seaward, Paul, The Restoration 1660-1688 (London, 1991). Southcombe, George and Tapsell, Grant, Restoration Politics, Religion and Culture: Britain and Ireland 1660-1714 (London, 2010). Anon, A Dialogue between Humphrey and Roger (1681). Anon, Advice to the Men of Shaftesbury (1681). Anon, Certain Proposals offered by the Bailiff and other Inhabitants of Crickdale (1681). Anon, The Character of a Fanatick (1681). Anon, The Character of a Thorough-Pac’d Tory, Ecclesiastical or Civil (1682). Nalson, John, The Character of a Rebellion and what England may expect from one (1681). Nalson, John, The true Protestant’s Appeal to the City and Country (1682). 27


History Cooper, Anthony Ashley, Some Observations Concerning the regulating of Elec tions for Parliament. Found among the Earl of Shaftesbury’s papers after his death. (1689). Filmer, Robert, Patriarcha (1680). Hunt, Thomas, The Great and Worthy Considerations...Considered (1680). Locke, John, ‘Second treatise’ in Two Treatises of Government (1698). Anon, A Most Serious Expostulation with Several of my Fellow-Citizens (1679). Thorogood, B.T., Captain Thorogood his Opinion of the point of Succession (1680).

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In What Ways Were National Identities Formed Between 1870 and 1914? Maeve Casserly

Junior Sophister, History and Political Science Walter Bagehot presented the history of the nineteenth century as that of ‘nation-building’ (Hobsbawm, 1992, p. 1). However, nations were more than just a creed, they were a community. During the period 1870 to 1914 the idea of a ‘national community’ was introduced into the everyday lives of ordinary people. For some it was a conscious and voluntary decision, using the criteria of citizenship, civic rights and duties as a means of defining nationhood. This notion of the nation as a ‘daily plebiscite’ was used by political theorists like Ernest Renan, particularly when describing the civic nation of the French Third Republic (Baycroft, 2006, p.1). In contrast to this the nation could also have been an ethno-cultural collection of people with a common history, culture, language, and tradition. This concept of national identity, unlike the liberal definition of theorists such as Renan, was often used to explain the formation of national sentiment in the newly unified Imperial Germany (Breuilly, 2001, p. 96). To discuss the evolution of national identities in the countries of these two “hereditary enemies’ this essay will use these contrasting concepts of nationhood (Berger, 2006, p. 52). This essay will focus in particular on the importance of the state in the legitimizing of the nation, the growth and control of nationalism, and the formation of national identities in the differing nation-states of France and Germany. Why was it that during this period in particular were such strong senses of national identities formed in Germany and France? There have been many different reasons given to explain this ‘age of nationalism’. The concept of the nation as an ‘imagined community’ was conceived by Anderson. He based this idea on consequence of the developments of the printing press which were as a result of technological advancements made during this period. He proposed that with the greater availability of newspapers, cheap books and so on, the language of a nation could be standardized and all of 29


History those who spoke this language would be included in this imagined literary nation (McLean, 2009, p. 142). Ernest Gellner also accredits this era of industrialization and technological progression as the catalyst for the explosion of nationalist sentiment in the late nineteenth century in Germany and France (Gellner, 2006, p. 38-39). According to Gellner this was a period of turbulent readjustment, in which political as well as cultural boundaries were being modified, so as to satisfy the new homogeneity that industrialization imposed on society. During this transformation from the old, ordered existence of a solely agrarian society to the new random, fluidity of industrial life the old structures of former village life were lost (Gellner, 2006, p. 62). The people needed a new sense of identification and the ‘imagined community’ of the nation filled this void (Hobsbawm, 2007, p. 148). The nation therefore acquired a wholly new and considerable importance to its people. This total and ultimate political community was thereafter their link to both the state and cultural boundaries of their nation, and allowed them to create national identities based on both the criteria of civic and ethno-cultural nation-states (Gellner, 2006, p. 62). The establishment of national identities and patriotic sentiment were as a response not only to the changing economic and technological environment, but also as a result of crisis conditions in these particular countries. Both France and Germany formed spontaneous nationalist sentiments and mass nationalist movements as a consequence of their own tumultuous creation. The humiliated Third Republic, born out of a crushing defeat, used nationalism and nationalist sentiment for the old republican and revolutionary ideals as a means of legitimizing their continued existence. Conversely, the Kaiserreich needed nationalism to provide justification for her unity in the eyes of outsiders, and also for her annexation of the highly contested territory of Alsace-Lorraine (Breuilly, 2001, 96). Both nations continued to use the tool of national sentiment as they were persistently faced with crises throughout their lives. Imperial Germany was constantly aware of its internal and external enemies, which created an environment of fear and paranoia, and the notion of German ‘encirclement’ (Berger, 2006, p. 51). The Third Republic was also in a continuous state of fear; fear of revolution, of civil unrest, and even of war and invasion. National incidents such as the Dreyfus Affair and the Boulanger Crisis therefore had an immense impact on the formation of nationalist identities and ideologies of the people of the late nineteenth century (Baycroft, 2006, p. 33). As a result of this, the ‘inheritors of the Boulanger Crisis’, men such as Pioncaré, Millerand and Piou, advocated a distinctly more right wing, reactionary nationalism than their prede30


History cessors (Weber, 1968, p. 10). National sentiment and national identity were therefore a product of national unity and continual crisis in these countries, rather than a creator of it (Breuilly, 2001, 96). The idea of the nation as an ‘imagined community’ of a body politique is partly derived from the theory of the ‘general will’ as expressed by Rousseau. The ‘general will’ became a secularized religious institution, as the people worshipped the very idea of the ‘nation’ itself. The general will of the nation, or ‘popular sovereignty’, thus, derived its sense of unity not only from the idea of common citizenship, but also from a newly awakened sense of national consciousness (Mosse, 1991, p. 2). Durkheim proposed that the secularized religion of nationality allowed for the fusion of will, culture and polity to become the norm, and encouraged the spiritual and emotional identification of its people with the nation as their ‘own’ (Gellner, 2006, p. 55). This new way of national identification within France and Germany during this time was unequivocally expressed in the building of national monuments as a means of articulating their different national identities. The secularized religion of the ‘general will’ relied upon a variety of myths and symbols which were based on the longing to escape from the consequences of industrialization (Mosse, 1991, p. 6). This feeling of remorse in Imperial Germany was manifested in the idealization of the healthy, pristine and vigorous life of the peasant; the Volk (Gellner, 2006, p. 56). For the millions of people who had lost their former identities in the haphazard existence of their new urban life, the peasant represented all that was still pure and good in Germany by his connection with nature. It was in this way that many found a new sense of national identity in the ‘Germanness’ of the simple peasant (Berger, 2006, p. 56). The peasant was not however the only figure worshipped by the new nationalist masses. The building of monuments had long been one of the key forms of national self-representation. One of the most famous German national monuments, Walhalla, was built before the unification of the Kaiserreich in Regensburg by King Ludwig I of Bavaria between 1830 and 1842. The statues of famous Germans which filled its halls imitated the manner in which the classical Greek city-states had celebrated their own famous men (Mosse, 1991, 29). It was built to encourage a sense of national unity, just as the illustrious ‘Bismarck Towers’ were constructed in commemoration of the ‘iron chancellor’ who unified the fractured country. Over five hundred of these monumental towers were erected between 1900 and 1910; their huge proportions incorporated both the classical Greek architecture of previous periods as well as the ‘monumentalism’ inspired by the pyramids of the Egyp31


History tian Pharaohs (Mosse, 1991, p. 36). National monuments served not only to create positive identities for the German people, but monuments like the Hermannsdenkmal, which represented the anti-French and anti-Catholic sentiment of the era, indicated the importance of both external and internal ‘national enemies’ for the construction of the national identity of Imperial Germany (Berger, 2006, p. 50). National monuments allowed for the worship of the nation and the people themselves, but also cemented, in bricks and mortar, the exclusivity of any national identity from the ‘other’. Whether this was the aforementioned anti-French and anti-Catholic feelings inherited from Bismarck’s Kulturkampf, or anti-Semitisim in France, national monuments stood as a testament to the superiority of the German or French national identity over their ‘enemies’. The French Third Republic, in contrast to Imperial Germany, retained one symbol of herself throughout her life; Marianne. The statue, bust or painting of a woman with dark hair and classical Greek features was seen all through the existence of the Third Republic. Her changing manifestations represented the evolution of the French nation from a reactionary liberal republic, to a conservative middle ground, and finally a move to the political right of the new nationalism (Weber, 1968, p. 3). Marianne was at first depicted as a youthful libertarian, often with her breasts uncovered and wearing the red Phyrian cap. She was seen as the champion of liberty as symbols like the Phyrian cap, given to freed slaves during the time of Ancient Rome, connected her with the ideals of the Enlightenment and the French Revolution; Liberty, Republic, Revolution and Freedom (Agulhon, 1981, p. 2). The frenzied gesture or expression of Marianne, as well as her partial nudity and Phyrian cap were all symbols of the early leftist ideals of the new born nation (Weber, 1968, p. 141). However the leftist government was soon defeated by a more moderate republicanism and this was reflected in the ‘Concorde’ built in 1872 which depicted the bust of a woman whose head was crowned with flowers and a ribbon with the ‘Concorde’ inscription. Her bosom was concealed by a robe in the Roman style. This reflected not only the conservative sentiment now felt by the French people, but also their loathing for the idea of the old Napoleonic Empire. By trying to suppress the events of the previous thirty years they reverted back to the ancient past to represent the new Republic (Weber, 1968, p. 157-158). By 1880 the crowning of Marianne with the Phyrian cap was an important political choice and it shows the significance of national monuments and symbolism in the conflict over the definition of the Republic. The French people therefore created a new na32


History tional identity for themselves in the many forms of Marianne right through the life of the Third Republic. The formation of national identities was based equally on the criteria for nationhood, as it was on the basis for which one was rejected from the ‘national community’. One of the most influential works on the formation of national identities during this period was Charles Darwin’s Origin of the Species. Darwinian evolutionism, which extolled the motto of ‘survival of the fittest’, led to the justification for the exclusion of other nationalities on the basis of their ‘race’ on the grounds of anthropological essentialism (Berger, 2006, p. 59). Social Darwinism, supplemented later by what came to be known as genetics, provided racism with what looked like a powerful set of ‘scientific’ reasons for ‘keeping out strangers’ (Hobsbawm, 1992, p. 108). The links between race and national identity are obvious. ‘Race’, a genetic concept, which unlike language or other forms of civic criteria for nationhood, could not be inherited. Jus sanguines, the idea of blood ties, was used by both France and Germany, although it became more prevalent in the latter’s identity, to create a xenophobic environment of racial exclusion (Berger, 2006, p. 53). For example the concept of the German Mitteleuropa, proposed by Friedrich Naumann, was founded upon the idea of the superiority of the German people over the ‘barbarian’ Slavic nations (Stone, 2007, p. 4). These lesser people who owed much of their history and culture to the Germans speaking nations would be saved by a crusade of German ethnic missionaries to the forsaken, heathen Slavic lands (Stone, 2007, p. 5). This idea of the chosen people, or the Herrenvolk, as the inheritors of a tired Latin world, gave the German people a sense of purpose and identification. Their common fear of ‘encirclement’, but also the sense of their own superiority, united the fractured nation against a common enemy (Hobsbawm, 2007, p. 159). This xenophobic national identity lent itself exceptionally well to expressing the collective resentments of a people who could not explain their discontent- it was the foreigner’s fault (Hobsbawm, 2007, 160). In France, this fear and restlessness demonstrated itself in the manifestation of strong anti-Semitic sentiments. The most infamous example of this was the national scandal of the Dreyfus Affair. Although the actual number of Jews in France were a mere 60,000 out of 40 million, their social positions as the leading bankers and leading entrepreneurs identified them with the ravages of capitalism ‘out to get the little man’ (Hobsbawm, 2007, p. 158). This new nationalist identity based on exclusion led Pioncaré to link his government to the Catholic Church and the right wing nationalists in his decision to adopt Jeanne d’Arc’s day as a national holiday (Weber, 1968, 33


History 11). This demonstrates that the Third Republic was not in fact a civic nation which based its citizenship criterion on voluntary choice, but was actually equal in its reactionary and ethno-cultural identity to that of Imperial Germany. The conclusion drawn from these examples of varying national identities is that the complex definition of a ‘nation’ cannot be simply labelled as civic or ethno-cultural. The supposedly contrasting nation-states of the Third Republic and Imperial Germany therefore actually share deep and inherent similarities. The national identity of these two ‘hereditary enemies’ oscillated between two poles; national self-definition on the one hand, and the image and idea of the enemy on the other ( Jeismann, 2006, p. 19). Their fears of revolution, ‘encirclement’, war and ‘the other’ caused both of these countries to evolve right-wing nationalism, which manifested itself in their national identities. Symbolism, allegory and emblems were used by France and Germany to create a new sense of identity for the people of these new born nations. The ‘age of nationalism’ was one of turbulent change in which both France and Germany went through an all consuming process of industrialization which dissipated the old order and structure of society. These two nations used the idea of the ‘national community’ to replace the lost agrarian lifestyle. The state taught their people to love their nation as they love their local village as they were one in the same (Baycroft, 2006, 35). National identities therefore became interlinked with every aspect of a person’s life and became part of their own innate self-identification.

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History

Bibliography Agulhon, Maurice, Marianne into Battle; Republican Imagery and Symbolism in France; 1789-1880, (London, 1981). Baycroft, Timothy ‘France’ Ethnicity and the Revolutionary Tradition’ in Baycroft, Timothy and Hewitson, Mark (eds.), What is a Nation? Europe; 1789-1914, (Oxford and New York, 2006). Baycroft, Timothy and Hewitson, Mark ‘What was a Nation in nineteenth Century Europe?’ in Baycroft, Timothy and Hewitson, Mark (eds.), What is a Nation? Europe; 1789-1914, (Oxford and New York, 2006). Berger, Stefan, ‘Germany; Ethnic Nationalism par excellence?’ in Baycroft, Timothy and Hewitson, Mark (eds.), What is a Nation? Europe; 17891914, (Oxford and New York, 2006). Breuilly, John, Nationalism and the State, (Manchester, 2001). Gellner, Ernest, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford, 2006). Hobsbawm, Eric, Nations and Nationalism since 1780; programme, myth and reality, (London, 1992) Hobsbawm, Eric, ‘Waving Flags, Nations and Nationalism’ in Hobsbawn, Eric, The Age of Empires; 1875-1914, (London, 2007). Jeismann, Michael, ‘Nation, Identity and Enmity; Towards a Theory of Political Identification’ in Baycroft, Timothy and Hewitson, Mark (eds.), What is a Nation? Europe; 1789-1914, (Oxford and New York, 2006). McLean, Iain, and McMillian, Alistair, The Conscise Oxford Dictionary of Politics, (Oxford, 2007). Mosse, George L., The Nationalization of the Masses; Political Symbolism and Mass Moevements in Germany from the Napoleonic Wars through the Third Reich, (London, 1991). 35


History Stone, Norman, World War One; a Short History, (London, 2007). Weber, Eugen, The Nationalist Revival in France; 1905 -1914, (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1968).

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The Impact of the First World War on Trinity College, Dublin. Elsa Sanchez Senior Sophister, History and Political Science

“There is no education like adversity.” – Benjamin Disraeli

The First World War created vast challenges for the students and staff of Trinity College. In the face of adversity, they struggled to maintain a sense of normalcy and “keep the flag of culture and scholarship flying” at Trinity throughout the war years (McDowell, 1982, p. 421). During this period the college faced financial crisis and staff shortages and the atmosphere and way of life within Trinity were dramatically altered. Documents from the era including the minutes of various college societies, memoirs and correspondence reveal the extent of the hardship the College faced. In this essay I will discuss broadly how the war impacted the College and more specifically how the war influenced three major student organizations: the College Historical Society, the University Philosophical Society and the official student publication of the time, T.C.D. Miscellany magazine. By the time the war broke out in August of 1914, Trinity was fairly prepared to answer the British Empire’s call to action. The Dublin University Officers’ Training Corps (DUOTC) had been established in 1908 and since then many students had joined. The DUOTC, which provided an atmosphere much like an athletic club, proved to be very popular among students, even those who had no interest in a military career (McDowell, 1982, p. 415). Members attended lectures and sat examinations in a variety of military subjects such as military history, strategy and tactics, field engineering, map reading, field sketching and military administration and organization. Candidates who successfully completed the military courses could be nominated to receive commissions in the British Army. In the 1914-1915 college year over fifty percent of Trinity undergraduates were members of the DUOTC (Dooney, 1986, p. 41). Throughout the war membership of the DUOTC remained at over half of the student population and the majority of members engaged in active service abroad. In comparison the rest of the U.K., Ireland was less enthusiastic in its popular support for the war. In the period immediately before the war, Ireland

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History had been marred by domestic political strife and subsequently events in Sarajevo seemed relatively unimportant. While in other parts of the Empire men flooded recruiting stations, recruiting in Ireland remained relatively “sluggish” and by March 1915, only about 2.37 percent of the Irish male population had joined the Army (Dooney, 1986, p. 38). Trinity’s reaction to the outbreak of war and the call for recruits differed significantly from the pattern which dominated the rest of Ireland. As a bastion of Protestant Ascendancy, Trinity’s ties to the Empire were strong and so was its support for the war. The greater part of students and staff held Unionists sympathies and thus Trinity’s reaction to the war was more similar to English universities, such as Oxford and Cambridge, than to other Irish universities (Dooney, 1986, p. 39). At Trinity the response to the war was overwhelmingly positive and hundreds of students and staff were eager to partake in the defence of the Empire. According to the Dublin University War List 3,042 members of the College served in the war, of which 869 were undergraduates who abandoned their studies in order to join the military. From 1914 to 1918, student numbers dropped drastically from 1,074 in 1914 to just 535 in 1918 (Dooney, 1986, p. 40). This dramatic change in student population had a profound impact on College life. The college was confronted with financial hardship due to the thousands of pounds lost in tuition fees and was forced to turn to the government for financial assistance (Dooney, 1986, p. 40). This meant and end to the fancy dinners and major festivities which had traditionally characterised life at Trinity. Instead, college life took on a more utilitarian nature, with sheep pastured in the football field and part of College Park dug up and planted with potatoes (McDowell, 1982, p. 420). The University became characterized by empty halls and a subdued atmosphere throughout the campus. Academic development was arrested by constant staff shortages and a continuously diminishing student body. Many schools within the college were forced to adjust their course content and teaching to meet the necessities of the war (Dooney, 1986, p. 40). The various student societies, an integral element of student life at Trinity, were hit very hard by the new circumstances created by the war. All of the societies struggled to remain in existence and the College Historical Society (CHS) and the University Philosophical Society (UPS), two of the oldest and most prominent societies on campus, were no exception. In a written account of his time in the CHS, T.C. Kingsmill Moore discusses some of the hardships the society endured during the war. He describes the initial impact of the outbreak of war stating “On August 1st, 1914 the College Historical Society was flourishing…Three days later came the war: and with the war a steadily worsening of conditions in the Society” (Budd, 1997, p. 185). According to Moore, the great majority of CHS members were either Redmondite nationalists or Unionists and both groups regarded service in the armed forces as a “manifest and com-

38


History pulsive duty” (Budd, 1997, p. 185). Subsequently around seventy-five percent of the membership of the CHS, including almost all of the society’s officers, served His Majesty’s Forces (Budd, 1997, p. 185). This created immense difficulties for the society as “with every fit member serving in the forces, the number available for carrying on the Society was reduced” (Budd, 1997, p. 185). At one point the society’s membership was just one fifth of its pre-war total (Budd, 1997, p. 185). Though the society faced extinction at this point, it was ultimately able to overcome the adversity it faced and return to normal functioning in 1919. The minutes of the meeting of the UPS from the war years reveal the difficulties this major society faced throughout the war years. A large portion of UPS members also served in the war, vastly reducing the group which remained on campus. The minutes state that the society was able to operate fairly normally throughout 1914 and 1915 while the demand for troops had not reached its peak. By 1916 however, the society found it extremely difficult to carry out its basic functions as the number of students leaving for battle increased steadily and the society experienced the deaths of numerous members and officers. From the very beginning of the war the society took an active interest in recognizing those society members who were serving in the military and in keeping up with international events. In late 1914, the Committee proposed to organize a list of all the society members serving in His Majesty’s Forces to be displayed in the Graduate Memorial Building. The Committee also made a motion to allow the students serving abroad to remain members of the society, even though their yearly subscription fees were not paid. This reveals the great respect those who remained on campus held for their peers who were serving in the war. In May of 1915 the Committee proposed that a large-scale map of Europe be purchased by the Society and placed in the Reading Room of the GMB “in order to facilitate the comprehension of the progress of the gigantic struggle” which was commanding “the attention if all members” of the society. The Librarian of the Society was then instructed to keep the map up to date by means of “small pins of various colours which shall represent the positions and strengths of the various forces engaged” (Minutes of the University Philosophical Society, 1915). In addition to keeping track of the numbers of society members serving in the military and following the development of the war, the UPS also consistently recognized the numerous deaths of former members in the minutes. From 1916 onwards, almost every meeting of the society was punctuated by the discussion of a lost peer. After paying mention to the deaths of UPS members, the society made the effort to send out letters of condolences to the families of the members who had passed. This became a very common function of the society in 1917 and 1918 as the death tolls mounted. It is evident from the society’s minutes that as the war progressed, loss and mourning became part of everyday life for Trinity students. Over the span of the war the UPS lost three former

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History presidents of the society among the multitude of other officers and ordinary members who perished (Minutes of the University Philosophical Society, 1915). In contrast with the respect and attention paid by the UPS and other societies to both the students fighting in the war and the progress of the war, T.C.D. Miscellany magazine, the official publication of the student body, pursued a very different approach. From the outbreak of war in 1914 to the armistice in 1918, the magazine contains remarkably little content pertaining to the war, despite the pronounced affects upon all aspects of college life. T.C.D. proclaims itself the organ of the student body, intended “primarily as a record of events...embodying as much as possible of College life from the Examination Hall to the Park” (Vol. XIII, 1917). In spite of this, the magazine neglects to give any substantial coverage of the events which defined Trinity College from 1914-1918 and even afterwards. The first mention of the First World War within T.C.D. was published on the 11th of November, 1914. This was the first issue of the magazine for the 1914-1915 college year and the editorial section reveals the sheer shock felt by the students at the start of the war. The writer of the article expresses a sense of disbelief created by the overwhelming speed with which Trinity was drawn into the international conflict. The article states “so much has happened both inside and outside college since our last number appeared that we find it hard to decide at which end to begin our endeavour to make a general stocktaking of college interests at present” (Vol. XX, 1914). The author also expresses a sense of sorrow and laments the intrusion of outside events into Trinity’s realm of “careless peace” (Vol. XX, 1914). It is recognized that the college is on the cusp of a new chapter of history and that the college life so familiar to hundreds of students may be changed forever. The article attempts to reconcile the feelings of grief felt with the demands of both international crisis and every day academic life. The author urges students to be supportive of the war effort and to “spend at least a few hours a week drilling in the O.T.C” (Vol. XX, 1914). Additionally, the author makes the first of numerous appeals to the students remaining at the college to submit contributions to the magazine. This is the beginning of the magazine’s long struggle to fill up the pages. The first few issues after the outbreak of war contain articles detailing the activities of the DUOTC and also few accounts of the fighting on the Western Front given by students stationed there. Additionally, the magazine published a Roll of Honour containing the names of Trinity students serving in the war twice. However, any attention paid to the war quickly tapered off in subsequent issues. Instead the majority of articles published are non-fiction or satirical and any serious articles and the coverage of goings-on within college diminished greatly. The brief passages that do speak of the war are only found within the editorial and are generally limited to mourning the pre-war college

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History life and fantasizing about the war’s end. In an issue published the 9th of June 1915, the editorial uses the phrase “Business as usual” to describe the general attitude throughout the college. Essentially this phrase dominates the editorial line of the publication throughout the war. On 10 November 1915, the editorial briefly discusses the challenges the magazine faced on account of the war. Due to the drop in the student population, the editors of the magazine were finding it incredibly difficult to collect enough articles to fill the publication each week. The article states “many of our cleverest and readiest contributors are either at the front, or have fallen at the front, or are preparing to go to the front. Can we and ought we to continue?” (Vol. XXI, 1914) The editors of the magazine decided it was necessary to endeavour to continue publication for those men and women who remained on campus and in order to maintain college spirit and morale (Vol. XX, 1914). This passage offers a rare glimpse into the everyday struggles faced by T.C.D. magazine as a result of the war, a hardship it shared with other organizations in College. In 1916 there is an acknowledgement on behalf of the magazine’s editorial staff of the insufficient attention paid to war-related topics. In February of 1916 the editorial article criticizes the college’s lack of action in creating a college-wide Roll of Honour to commemorate students and staff serving in the war. The article contrasts the efforts made by societies such as the CHS and the UPS to recognize past and present members with the lack of effort made by the College Board, and the magazine itself. At this point T.C.D. was the only university magazine in the UK which did not publish obituary notices. The editorial staff attributed this to the Board’s failure to keep a running list of College members engaged in active service (Vol. XXII, 1916). Later in 1916, the T.C.D. staff reveals a sense of dissatisfaction with the policy of T.C.D. with regard to the war up to that point. The article explains that in Michaelmas term of 1914 it was believed that the war would not last more than six months and because of this it was decided that it was undesirable to insert war news every week. At this point the staff members decided against any extensive coverage of the war and contented themselves with publishing as loose insets, two lists of Trinity men who had volunteered for service (Vol. XXIII, 1916). A later article explains that when it was evident the war would drag on for much longer than this “it was found to be too late to cope with the accumulated matter of several terms” and this was the cause of the “unfortunate policy of ignoring all military casualties and distinction won abroad” (Vol. XXIII, 1917). At this point the magazine reveals for the first time the full extent of the impact of the war on T.C.D. The 1917 article states “the personnel of T.C.D. have suffered severely in the casualty lists, eight editors within our own ken have been wounded and two alas! are no more” (Vol. XXIII, 1917). This is the first mention of these tragedies; until May of 1917 the topic had been completely avoided by

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History the magazine. A letter to the editor in the following issue suggests that the dissatisfaction felt towards T.C.D.’s policy regarding the war extended beyond the staff of the magazine. The letter states “ I deplore the fact that though our efforts to keep the magazine afloat are commendable, they are so far futile that the deeper our sense of the daily increasing loss of our college friends grows, the more frivolous, personal, and generally not-worth-wile becomes the matter of our paper” (Vol. XXIII, 1917). The letter criticises the magazine for its trivial content and lack of attention to more significant matters. The author describes Trinity as a self-centred institution aloof to international events. Given the magazine’s policy towards the war and the College Board’s failure to keep a record of students and staff serving in the war, it can be argued that this depiction of the University is accurate. Despite criticism of the content and editorial line of T.C.D., little apparent effort was made in subsequent issues to introduce more serious or relevant content. The magazine remained a publication full or farce and jokes and trivial articles throughout the rest of the war. This begs the question of whether or not there was an element of escapism which defined the content of the magazine. Perhaps the editorial staff avoided publishing articles on the war, the hundreds of deaths and casualties of Trinity students, etc. in order to provide students a weekly escape from the atmosphere of crisis and tragedy which surrounded them. Regardless of the reasons behind the lack of published content pertaining to the war, it is ironic that the publication which was the mouthpiece of the student body failed to thoroughly discuss the current events which were most influential upon college life at the time. Despite the lack of mention of the war in T.C.D. magazine or the College Board minutes, it cannot be denied that the First World War’s impact upon Trinity College was immense. Minutes from the society meetings and memoirs of students and staff from the period reveal that the war and its implications influenced the lives of every student and every member of staff, regardless of whether they actively engaged in the war effort or not. Furthermore, when the War List was finally completed after the war, the sheer numbers of Trinity staff, students and alumni who served in the war spoke for themselves. Today, it is difficult to find mention of the First World War in relation to its impact on Trinity College in history books. At best one can find a few paragraphs or perhaps a page or two on the subject. Moreover, many students currently attending the College are unaware of the sacrifices hundreds of students which passed before them gave to the war. This does not do justice to this critical period of the College’s history which permanently shaped the lives of so many.

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History Bibliography Bailey, Kenneth C. Trinity College Dublin, 1892-1945. (Dublin, 1947) Budd, Declan; Hinds, Ross. The Hist and Edmund Burke’s Club. (Dublin, 1997). Dooney, Laura. “Trinity College and the War.” Ireland and the First World War. David Fitzpatrick (ed.). (Dublin, 1986), pp. 38-46. Dublin University Calendar, 1914-1915. Vol. I. Jeffrey, Keith. Ireland and the Great War. (Cambridge, 2000). Luce, J.V. Trinity College Dublin: The first 400 years. (Dublin, 1992). McDowell, R.B.; Webb, D.A. Trinity College, 1592-1952: An Academic History. (Cambridge, 1982) T.C.D. A College Miscellany. Vol. XX, No. 359-Vol. XXV, No. 430 (11 Nov, 1914- 19 Feb, 1919). University Philosophical Society Minute Book, 1914-1930. Manuscripts Library, T.C.D. War Memorial Papers & Papers of Francis La Touche Godfrey, Sec. of War Memorial Committee. Manuscripts Library, T.C.D.

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The Rise of the ‘New Right’ in American Politics Siobhan Margolis

Junior Sophister, History and Political Science It has often been questioned how, in the United States, where extreme ideologies have traditionally played a negligible role in mainstream politics, Ronald Reagan, a man whose stance on almost every political issue of the day lay well to the right of the average American voter, succeeded in winning the presidential election in 1980 (Hudson, 2008, p.8). Furthermore, Reagan went on to win a landslide re-election in 1984 and upon resigning in January 1989 he maintained an impressive public approval rating of 70 per cent, making him the most popular outgoing president since Franklin D. Roosevelt, who had died in office (Schaller, 1994, p. 66). Reagan’s successes can be seen as representing the triumphant peak of the rise of the conservative political movement known as the ‘New Right’, a once relatively marginalized faction of the Republican Party which had been rapidly gaining support and momentum throughout the 1970’s. In this essay I will examine the birth and development of the ‘New Right’ movement, a coalition of Christian fundamentalists, right-wing Republican representatives, conservative political lobbying groups and unorthodox economists, and attempt to understand how their extreme socio-economic policies, which at first marked them out as a radical offshoot of little political significance, eventually gained great support within the Republican Party and amongst the American public, culminating in the presidency of Ronald Reagan. In doing this, I will also chart the social and political background of their development, from the 1950’s through to the 1980’s, and highlight the domestic and international trends and events which made their rise to the White House possible. The origins of the ‘New Right’ can be traced back to the 1950’s when the movement was founded as a reaction against, among other things, the moderate elements that had come to dominate the Republican leadership. In 1953 following a lengthy period of Democratic Party dominance in Washington, Dwight D. Eisenhower, heroic commander of the Allied forces in World War II, had won back the White House for the Republi44


History cans. Eisenhower, with his practice of ‘dynamic conservatism’, represented the moderate majority in the Republican Party and although he was tough on communism, he was tolerant on social issues and supportive of the welfare programs established during Franklin D. Roosevelt’s ‘New Deal’ of the 1930’s (Derbyshire, 1990, p. 12). Placing a particular emphasis on the expansion of social security, he even went so far as to establish a Department of Health, Education and Welfare, an unprecedented move especially for a Republican president. This ‘mellowing’ of mainstream Republican ideology was seen by the more radical elements within the Party as a betrayal of conservative ideals and it was during the Eisenhower presidency that many reactionary organisations that were to become cornerstones of the ‘New Right’ movement such as The John Birch Society, a political advocacy group that aimed to limit the role of government, and National Review, the conservative magazine which was to become the mouthpiece of the movement, were established (Schaller, 1994, p. 11). Although, the ‘New Right’ had not yet established itself as a formidable political force, remaining a marginalized group within the Republican Party until at least the late 1950’s, their initial success was in reviving the idea that ‘conservative’ was a label that could be worn without shame. ‘After generations of exile from respectability, the word itself has been welcomed home with cheers by men who, a few short years ago, would sooner have been called arsonists than conservatives’, wrote Clinton Rossiter in 1955 (Vile, 2007, p. 51). The next challenge for the ‘New Right’ would be to channel their conservative mores and frustration with government, past and present, into a coherent political ideology; only then could they expect to generate widespread public support. The original intellectual foundation of the ‘New Right’ movement was, most famously, articulated in The Conscience of a Conservative, a book that was ghost-written for Barry Goldwater, a Senator from Arizona and sold over 3.5 million copies. Goldwater’s political ideas could most simply be summed up as a rejection of the New Deal, a desire to re-establish laissez faire economics, an aggressive, anti-communist foreign policy and a relatively libertarian stance on social issues (Schaller, 1994, p. 12). The earliest significant political breakthrough of the ‘New Right’ came in 1964 when Senator Goldwater was nominated by the Republican Party, albeit with less than unanimous support, to run as their presidential candidate, defeating the moderate candidate Nelson Rockefeller. His presidential campaign was ultimately a failure; whether due to the American public rejecting his extreme political ideology or due to an outpouring of support for the Democratic Party following President John F. Kennedy’s assassination the previous year, 45


History coupled with a healthy economy, incumbent Lyndon B. Johnson won a landslide victory, receiving over 61 percent of the popular vote to Goldwater’s 38.5 per cent and carrying forty-four states. However, Goldwater’s failed presidential bid, rather than marking the end of the ‘New Right’s’ ascendance in national politics, was only the beginning. Barry Goldwater had not succeeded in winning over the hearts and minds of the American public with his brand of conservatism; however, he managed to pave the way for more charismatic, right-wing figures such as actor, Ronald Reagan, who had made a televised speech on Goldwater’s behalf in October 1964 and was elected Governor of California two years later (Schaller, 1994, p. 13). Additionally changes that would take place in society in the 1960’s and 1970’s as well as shifts in the demographic support bases for both the Republican and Democratic parties would be extremely conducive to the rise of the ‘New Right’. The fact that a radical conservative like Goldwater managed to win enough support to be chosen as the Republican presidential nominee was indicative of the changes that were taking place within the Party in the 1960’s, changes which would become even more pronounced in the proceeding decades. The presidencies of John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson oversaw what has often been described as a cultural revolution in the United States. Developments such as the rise of feminism, the civil rights movement, student protesting and a general relaxation of sexual inhibitions, scandalised as many American citizens as they empowered, leading traditionalists to question whether the moral integrity of the United States was in danger of being undermined by subversive forces (Barry, 1987, p. 143). The civil rights agenda, propagated by both Kennedy and Johnson and culminating in the Civil Rights Act of 1964, proved to be a particularly contentious issue which caused an ideological split between liberal, North-Eastern Democrats, pushing for progressive reform, and the ‘racist historical Democrats’ of the South (Derbyshire, 1990, p. 8-9). This crumbling of support in the South for Democratic presidential candidates, who were generally of the NorthEastern liberal variety, was a huge breakthrough for the Republican Party in general, and the far right in particular, as a new pool base of support opened up to them. In order to cultivate their support in the growing populations of the South and West but also in small town, Protestant America, the ‘New Right’ began to distance themselves from certain socially libertarian aspects of the ‘Goldwaterite’ message, embracing instead, the more socially conservative views of fundamentalist, born-again Christians, a group which by 1980 would comprise roughly one third of America’s church going popula46


History tion (Derbyshire, 1990, 46). While these ‘moral voters’ often saw modern government as an unnecessary evil in so far as it attempted to usurp roles traditionally filled by church and family, they were willing to work within its constraints where they saw a chance for ‘the imposition of their values’ on government policy (Barry, 1987, p. 144). Therefore, right-wing politicians sympathetic to issues such as anti-abortion law, the censorship of pornography, the implementation of compulsory prayers in public schools and some laws targeting homosexuals could expect mass mobilisation of the religious Right in their favour (Barry, 1987, p. 144). It was largely by taking advantage of the support of conservative ‘political action committees’ which operated as powerful fundraising machines, Christian lobbying groups such as the ‘Moral Majority’ and the endorsement of popular ‘televangelists’ such as Reverend Pat Robertson that many members of the ‘New Right’ rose to political prominence (Schaller, 1994, p. 23-24). Even Ronald Reagan, who was, himself, divorced and not a regular church- goer, wholeheartedly embraced the Christian Right, whose support he roused with rhetoric condemning ‘Godless Communism’ and ‘the Soviet Union’s evil Empire’ during his time as Governor of California (Schaller, 1994, p. 23-24). It would take more than the votes of born again Christian’s, however, for the ‘New Right’ to have a candidate elected as president of the United States, a remarkable feat that was achieved in November 1980. Ronald Reagan’s election as President of the United States can be viewed largely as a reaction against the failures that had not only blighted the administration of his predecessor, Democrat Jimmy Carter, but had more or less characterized the previous decade of government. Since John F. Kennedy, there had been a noted absence of ‘heroism’ in the White House and the United States, under the uninspiring leadership of Presidents Johnson, Nixon, Ford and Carter, had been disgraced by the War in Vietnam and the Watergate scandal, experienced energy crises and had entered into a period of deep economic decline (Schaller, 1994, p. 4). In the election of 1980, the decisive issues of the day were the troubled economy, with the country entering into recession due to exceptionally high interest rates, as well as the worrying deterioration of stability in international affairs, as incidents such as the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan and the capture of American hostages in Iran had demonstrated (Hudson, 2008, p. 4). The Carter administration’s apparent ineptitude at dealing with these pressing issues was to work strongly in favour of the Reagan campaign. Reagan’s candidacy was also helped by a revival of support for conservative monetarist economics in the late 1970’s. Amongst the public, there was still support for the Great Society programs 47


History of the 1960’s but many believed that their growth should be halted. The Californian taxpayers revolt of 1979 and the decision for taxes to be slashed in a further forty one states the next year was indicative of a shift in popular attitudes and a resurge of support for economic conservatism. Reagan’s promises cut back on government spending and bureaucracy went down well with the public at a time when government was not trusted (Vile, 2007, p. 52). However, only 31 per cent of Americans actually described themselves as ‘conservative’ in 1980, indicating that it was not Reagan’s policies alone that ensured his victory (Hudson, 2008, p. 5). In what has been described as ‘a period of self doubt for America’, the people looked for a leader who could assuage their fears and make them feel optimistic for the future (Derbyshire, 1990, p. 46). Reagan, a former Hollywood actor often referred to as ‘the Great Communicator’, fit this role perfectly, inspiring confidence in the American people with his charm and charismatic nature. However, Reagan’s ultimate electoral asset was simply that he was not Jimmy Carter, whose approval rating had sunk as low as 21% at one point during the campaign (Hudson, 2008, p. 5). Therefore, Reagan’s decisive victory in the polls in November 1980, the ‘New Right’s’ greatest political triumph to date, was, arguably, less of an indication that America was undergoing a conservative revolution than the fact that Reagan had managed to establish himself as a preferable alternative to the immensely unpopular incumbent; a victory by default. Regardless of the reasons behind his electoral success in 1980, Ronald Reagan’s presidency was seen, by members of the ‘New Right’, as a colossal achievement and as an opportunity to put ‘an end to the misguided social theories of the Great Society era (Hudson, 2008, p. 1). During Reagan’s eight years in the White House, he was to advocate countless pieces of legislation propagating the ‘New Right’ agenda, particularly through his conservative economic policy, dubbed ‘Reaganomics’ (Schaller, 1994, p. 42). Based on the teachings of ‘supply-side’ economist, Arthur Laffer, Reagan believed that he could reduce taxes significantly, increase military spending and still manage to balance the budget on the basis that lower taxes would greatly stimulate economic activity (Schaller, 1994, p. 26). Taking advantage of the new Republican majority in Senate and riding a wave of extremely high public support following his survival of an assassination attempt in March 1981, Reagan managed to get his tax cuts passed in Senate that July; a program which undeniably benefited the wealthy and business interests disproportionately and was criticised by the Speaker of the House of Representatives, Democrat, Thomas ‘Tip’ O’ Neill as ‘a program of the rich, by the rich and for the rich’ (Dallek, 1984, p. 122). Reagan also kept his promise to increase military 48


History spending, more than doubling the defence budget between 1981 and 1986, drawing the Soviet Union into an irreversible arms race (McMahan, 1985, p. 3). However, despite significant reduction of government expenditure on Great Society programs that benefited the poor, Reagan found that it would be impossible to cut many social security benefits without ‘squandering political good will’ (Schaller, 1994, p. 45-46). Therefore, Reagan’s policies, far from vanquishing the budget deficit, actually caused national debt to nearly triple to almost $2.7 trillion by 1989 (Schaller, 1994, p. 49). While Reagan’s personal commitment to right-wing economics cannot be refuted, it has been argued that Reagan’s backing for the ‘New Right’ social agenda comprised of ‘more symbol than substance’ (Dallek, 1982, p. 123-124). While he spoke out against abortion and in favour of prayer in public schools, he did not press for legislation on these issues as strongly as he did on economic issues, particularly after the Democrats won back the Senate in 1982 (Dallek, 1982, p. 123-124). In fact, many members of the ‘New Right’, who actually had few representatives in the Regan cabinet, felt somewhat betrayed by Regan’s appointment of Sandra Day O’ Connor, whom they felt to be not sufficiently conservative, to the Supreme Court (Schaller, 1994, p. 41). However, the Reagan presidency was still, undeniably, the greatest achievement of the ‘New Right’ movement and the 1980’s is to this day, remembered nostalgically by many as a golden age of conservatism in American politics. Due to the general economic prosperity of the 1980’s and his pursuit of an aggressive foreign policy which ultimately led to, or at least accelerated, the collapse of the Soviet Union, Reagan’s presidency is remembered by many as a period of ‘renewal of national purpose and self-belief ’ and he has left behind a largely positive legacy (Hudson, 2008, p.1). However, Reagan’s political adversaries, of whom there were many, would remember the decade as a time of militarism and greed that saw the widening and cementing of social inequalities. Political bias aside, Reagan’s time in the White House undeniably set a new precedent for the role of the extreme Right in American politics. For example, since the 1980’s there has been a noted increase of importance in the political influence exerted by Christian Evangelical groups, notably during the presidency of George W, Bush, he himself a born again Christian. According to ‘Theocracy Watch’, a project run by the Center for Religion, Ethics and Social Policy at Cornell University, the Republican Party has become overwhelmingly dominated by the Christian Right who ‘use god as a battering ram on almost every political issue’. The rise of the ‘New Right’, compounded and legitimised by the Reagan presidency, has undeniably played a key role in shaping American politics throughout the 49


History latter half of the twentieth century and will, no doubt continue to do so well into the twenty-first.

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History Bibliography Barry, Norman P., New Right (London, 1987) Dallek, Robert, Ronald Reagan: The Politics of Symbolism, (Cambridge, 1984) Derbyshire, Ian, Politics in the United States: From Carter to Bush (Edinburgh, 1990) Hudson, Cheryl and Davies, Gareth, Ronald Reagan and the 1980’s: Perceptions, Policies, Legacies (New York, 2008) Mc Mahan, Jeff, Reagan and the World: Imperial Policy in the New Cold War (New York, 1985) Schaller, Michael, Reckoning with Reagan (New York, 1994) Vile, Maurice, J.C., Politics in the USA (London, 2007) Theocracy Watch- The Rise of the Religious Right in the Republican Partyhttp://www.theocracywatch.org/ (Accessed 15/01/10).

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Art History

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Artistic Intent Revisited Sue Rainsford

Senior Sophister, Art History “An aesthetic mentality.... that wholly swept away the idea of genius would degenerate into a desolate, pedantic arts-and-crafts mentality devoted to tracing out stencils.” - Theodore W. Adorno Where is it we locate artistic intent in the process of art production, and why should it be granted any level of importance? Biographical analysis as a means of deciphering content and subject matter certainly results in explanatory information that allows us to make inferences based in externalities, but can artistic intent be considered as something more, as the fuel and drive behind the piece, and the viewer’s point of entry into an artwork? If the latter, then the source of the work must be located within the artist, and artistic intent is important as a point of departure as well as a means of doing a work justice in its interpretation. I do not think it is an over-simplification to describe the debate over artistic intent as one rooted in academia versus aesthetics, in the sense that understanding and appreciating a work can be two very different things, with different needs being satisfied. There is often a distinction made between setting out to understand a work in terms of motivation and application, and appreciating a piece by means of engulfment and being stimulated by the cause, process and result all manifest within the work itself. In this essay I will investigate whether artistic intent aids us getting to the core of an artwork, or whether it leads away from the true nature of all art – that it is a means of human expression, manifested in such a way that it will transcend its maker and original context. With this latter aspect we are also dealing with the autonomous quality of art, and whether or not it should be “assessed by external standards applicable elsewhere, but by standards of its own” (Osborne, 1968, p. 185). This of course has connotations concerning whether art is truly for everyone, or if an academic basis is required to unlock any esoteric meanings integral to deciphering a piece. Theories orientated around free will and indeterminism of psychological events within the artist state that there is always a degree of spontaneity in the creative act, and therefore an unplanned attribute that can never be accommodated by sociological and economic terms. However explanatory exercises of

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art history this sort discount the notion of aesthetics playing a role in viewing an artwork. There is admittedly an argument for artistic intent in the assumption that its absence prevents our intellectual needs from being met, centred on the notion of how can we appreciate something we don’t understand, but this again steers artistic experience away from being one of aesthetics and prioritizes academicism. This Kantian perspective of “pleasure taken is not in the act of contemplation but in the fulfilment of these tendencies in the subject-matter perceived” (Dewey, 2005, p. 265), gives art a sterile quality which results in a limiting of “aesthetic emotion to the pleasure attending the act of contemplation is to exclude all that is most characteristic of it” (Dewey, 2005, p. 268).Having subtracted artistic intent, what can be said to happen to our experience of an artwork? An aesthetic response, that stimulates or interrogates our senses, is surely of more validity than a comprehension of hierarchical schemes, reasoning behind composition etc. According to John Dewey, coming into contact with a work of art is of spiritual and physical importance. In ‘Art as Experience’, he doesn’t dwell so much on intent as he does on whether or not an artist has successfully handled all the components of an artwork, and whether or not all features have been conducted in such a way that none is hindered or excessively treated. This of course deals with the effect of the artwork based on spontaneous impact rather than effect based on continuous contemplation, but raises an important question; does judging an artwork successful by its holistic impact enhance our experience more than an approach governed by artistic intent? In Foucault’s essay ‘What is an Author?’ he deals with the concept that “the task of criticism is not to bring out of the work’s relationships with the author, nor to reconstruct through the text a thought or experience, but rather, to analyze the work through its structure, architecture, intrinsic form, and the play of its internal relationships”(1992, p. 198). This means of considering a work, whether or not its impact and effect is complete, self-sufficient and successfully managed, is the best way of doing justice to both artwork and artist, for an artist’s intent must be realized for a piece to have a cohesive and satisfying meaning for the viewer. Thus if the work is successful, we automatically realise it’s intent. This is in keeping with Foucault, who deems all necessary elements for experiencing an artwork are contained within the artwork itself - if otherwise then the endeavour hasn’t been successful. For Foucault, the notion that there is some creator behind an artwork, an individual within whom we can locate its origin, is merely a device “employed to aid in discourse, and so were it to be abandoned would have no immediate bearing on the reading of the work, nor would it lessen the experience for the viewer” (1992, pg. 198). Surely the nature of art involves surpassing its point of departure? If we assign meaning to intentionality, based on historical and sociological circumstances, we limit the work’s relevance for the future.

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art history It is certainly true, as argued by Dewey, that psychological input is essential to aesthetics. The artist must submerge herself entirely in the process, if the viewer is to be able to successfully submerge themselves in the result. This is what Dewey refers to when he speaks of the “human contribution” (Dewey, 2005, p. 255); the art object acts as a communication between artist and viewer, a process in which psychological factors are indispensable, but still artistic intent does not have a specific role in terms of experiencing the piece; “The real work of art is the building up of an integral experience out of the interaction of organic and environmental conditions and energies” (Dewey, 2005, p. 67), Is the work of art then essentially an occurrence within the viewer’s experience, an incident within the continuous interaction of the self and its environment? Viewed in such terms artistic intent is by no means fundamental to the understanding of an artwork, and artistic intent could even be taken for granted as always being a desire to communicate via the forces of interaction and the inter-relationships contained within the work itself. Though Dewey’s view may be criticized as abstract and detached, he does deal with the more individualistic concepts behind artistic production; we cannot honestly claim that an artist approaches her materials with an empty mind. Whether intentionally or no, she comes complete with an extensive series of experiences behind her that have established her objectives; “some subtle affinity with the current of (her) own experience as a live creature causes lines and colours to arrange themselves in one pattern and rhythm rather than in another” (Dewey, 2005, p. 91). What stands out most keenly from this chapter is Dewey’s statement that art only expresses something that is belongs solely to art, followed by Roger Fry’s statement “subject matter” is irrelevant if not detrimental to art (Dewey, 2005, p. 92); overall then Dewey must see artistic intent as something that governs and moulds the creation of an artwork, but shouldn’t be employed in terms of content and subject matter, i.e. in terms of analysis and as an implement of understanding a work. However little the intention of artworks is their content – if only because we can never be certain that intent will be fully realized by the work – as a component it can’t be ignored. The excess of intentions reveals that the impartiality of artworks can’t simply be labelled as mimesis; “The objective bearer of intentions, which synthesizes the individual intentions of artworks into a whole, is their meaning. It remains relevant in spite of everything problematic inherent to it and in spite of all the evidence that this is not all there is to artworks” (Adorno, 1996, p. 151). Still, in questioning what is most important to understanding artworks, we must consider what is fundamental to its motivation and production. Intent is superfluous when you consider the successful realization of an artwork, wherein the viewer is engulfed within the subject and its manifestation, the impassioned

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art history the viewer is engulfed within the subject and its manifestation, the impassioned fusion of subject with materials and artwork with viewer. As said by Clive Bell; “The starting point for all systems of aesthetics must be the personal experience of a peculiar emotion. The objects which provoke this emotion we call works of art” (Osborne, 1968, p. 107), the artwork as a stimulus of feeling and contemplation is paramount. If this aesthetic event occurs, what else matters? To claim relevance for artistic intent has connotations of nudging art into a more academic and esoteric category, and raises the question of whether the emotions registered in the viewer are more important than the decisions made by the artist. If it is at all possible to dismiss artistic intent and still achieve some sense of unison with the artwork, then we must admit to artistic intent playing a secondary role in artistic experience. A more extreme approach would be to negate it entirely, as when seen in terms of historical development, and individualization the author is only a component part of that development. Also, as argued by Pierre Boulez, we are denying ourselves by clinging to artistic intent, as not even the artist herself can conceive of everything her work will mean. Art is not made for the sake of process; it is made for effect and longevity via its effect. As phrased by Foucault, “In writing, the point is not to manifest or exalt the act of writing, nor is it to pin a subject within language; it is rather a question of creating a space into which the writing subject constantly disappears” (1992, p. 197).

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art history Bibliography Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, University of Minnesota Press, 1996 Roland Barthes, Image-Music-Text, Fontana Paperbacks, 1984 Monroe C. Beardsley, Aesthetics; Problems in the Philosophy of Criticism, Harcourt, Brace and World Inc, 1958 John Dewey, Art as Experience, Perigree, 2005 David Lodge, Modern Criticism and Theory, A Reader, Longman, 1992 Morris Weita Problems in Aesthetics, The Macmillan Company, 1970

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In What Ways did the CounterReformation Affect Painting in Rome Before 1630? Roisin Lacey-McCormack

Junior Sophister, Classical Civilization and History of Art The Counter Reformation and the revolution in painting which it affected began with the Protestant Reformation of 1517 and Martin Luther’s 95 Theses, which demonstrated their opposition to the Roman Catholic Church and all that it had come to represent. This group of dissidents felt that the Church had become corrupted by such practices as simony and the sale of indulgences. They disapproved with the extravagance of the church and of how it had become increasingly motivated by superficial values in lieu of those of a spiritual nature. Central to this discussion of the impact of Counter Reformation ideals on painting in Rome, was the Protestants’ challenge of the role of religious painting as the Second Commandment states ‘Thou shalt not make or worship idols’. I would suggest that there is a link between opposition to the worship of images- that escalated in the Low Countries where iconoclastic insurgencies took place- and the general abhorrence of the Protestant Reformers towards the Roman Catholic Church. People had become increasingly displeased with the mannerisms which painters in the mid to late 16th century had become accustomed to. Many art theorists commented upon this and one particular workGabriele Paleotti’s Discorso Intorno Alle Imagini Sacre e Profane- published in 1582 exerted a significant influence over painters. Although this work was published in Bologna, I feel that Paleotti’s sentiments sum up contemporary views on painting in Rome. Paleotti criticized painting that had become so obscure that it left the viewer confused and unable to read the painting. Giovanni Pietro Bellori criticized the frivolity and pomp of art; “artists, abandoning the study of nature, corrupted art with the maniera, by which we man the fantastic idea” (Pietro, 2005, p. 71). Might Italians have noticed a parallel between indulgence and extravagance in painting and in the administration of the Church? Would the prevalence of the former have reinforced the controversy of the latter? Annibale Carracci’s c.1580-1600 Stoning of St. Stephen (fig. 1) demonstrates a response to both the Protestant opposition to image worship and the growing concern amongst scholars and artists that painting had been lead astray by maniera. In this painting, Carracci has two aspects of the same episode

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art history distributed across two axes, the stoning of the saint is conveyed across the horizontal axis while the vision of Christ in heaven is conveyed across a diagonal axis. This device serves to emphasize St. Stephen as the dramatic core of the painting in a clear and concise way; the eye is led across the foreground from the figure reclining on the right to St. Stephen on the left, and form St. Stephen diagonally towards Christ and the figures accompanying him in the cloud in the top right corner. Just as the story of the martyrdom of St. Stephen hinges on his persecution by the Jews, so that he can in turn be accepted into heaven, so too does Annibale place him as the turning point in the composition. The diagonal axis is an unbroken line that extends above and beyond the figures stoning St. Stephen in the foreground. The impression given here is that, between God and Man, there exists an unbreakable and incorruptible connection, a clear connection between this life and the next. This would have been really effective in countering Luther’s argument, presented in his 95 Theses that there is no connection between the life lived on earth and death. Luther believes that “the dying are freed by death from all penalties. They are already dead to canonical rules, and have a right to be released form them” (1517, p. 14) This painting then reinforces the importance of cause and effect. Whereas Luther seemingly held the belief that the soul would be absolved of punishment through death and the Protestant reformers believed that faith alone could bring about salvation, the Church and the Counter Reformers were staunch believers in the importance of combining faith with works of faith in order to attain salvation and so Annibale’s painting reinforces this conviction by demonstrating the reward which awaited those who actively pursued their faith, like St. Stephen. The Protestant Reformers also took issue with the worship of the Virgin Mary and the veneration of Saints. In terms of the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church and the sacraments, Protestants denied the transubstantiation. While the Catholic Church held the belief that during the Eucharist, the bread and wine were literally transformed into the body and blood of Christ- whilst only the superficial qualities of the bread and wine remained- Protestant believed in consubstantiation and that the body and blood were present in the bread and wine and they denied the complete transformation. Monsignor Tiberio Cerasi, an affiliate of the Pope, purchased the Cerasi Chapel in S. Maria del Poppolo in the late 16th century. Cerasi commissioned Annibale Carracci and Michelangelo da Caravaggio to paint the altar and two lateral walls. There was a strong competitive atmosphere between the two painters commissioned to paint the chapel and this competition would naturally have come to a climax in this chapel, as both of them would have been acutely aware of the other. Naturally, then, each painter would have been motivated to emphasize that aspect of his style that he found so lacking in the other. Caravaggio’s side panels work very well to counter Protestant opposition to the veneration of saints. This is resolved by means of the composition,

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art history

Fig. 1: The Stoning of St. Stephen, Annibale Carracci

Fig. 3: Death of a Virgin (detail), Carravagio

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art history

Fig. 2: The Assumption, Annibale Carraci

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art history conscious of the point from which the viewer encounters these two side paintings. In each, the composition is dominated by a diagonal axis, which offers the viewer an opportunity to enter into the painting. The centre of the Conversion of St. Paul is neither the figure of St. Paul lying across the foreground, nor is it the horse. It is in fact the empty space between them, which extends outwards from this void and encapsulates the viewer. Likewise, Caravaggio’s Crucifixion of St. Peter engages the viewer as the centre of the painting expands in a vista-like manner out towards the viewer. To stand in front of a Caravaggio painting is akin to staring down a dark underground tunnel, waiting for an approaching train and I think that these two paintings really enhance this aspect of Caravaggio’s style. The figures emerge in relief from the darkness and the naturalism creates a strong sense of physical presence; Caravaggio effectively captures the tension in St. Peter’s neck and torso, because his upper body, in straining itself forward, defies gravity. Just as realistic is the sheer weight of the cross upon the shoulders of the figure in the foreground whose backside almost protrudes form the picture plane. He, too, is subjected to the laws of gravity and nature by the painter, just as any human being would be. All this served to convey an impression of immediacy on the beholder, thus stimulating an emotional response- perhaps one of both pity and awe. Either way, these paintings succeed because they initiate the viewer into the experience of the Saints. The viewer does not gaze upon the images in worship but they actually participate in the event taking place, and this went above and beyond the Counter Reformers demands that painting simply instruct. The Conversion and the Crucifixion instructed the viewer about the experiences of those who suffered for the sake of their faith but they also drew the viewer into the drama. Not only do the artists in this chapel draw the viewer into the drama, but they also initiate the viewer into a more complex experience. After viewing Caravaggio’s paintings on the lateral walls of the chapel, Annibale’s Assumption (Figure 4) initially seems to conform to exactly what the Protestant Reformers opposed. The Assumption comes across as an image designed to evoke a sense of monumentality and awe, an object to be adored. However, upon further consideration, it is revealed that this painting is at the climax of the drama. The figures in the foreground herald the event of the Assumption and in doing so, they invite the viewer to enter the drama. Caravaggio’s paintings are essential to the viewing of Annibale’s Assumption in that the Crucifixion and the Conversion guide the viewer- in terms of vision and experience- towards the Assumption, as if Annibale’s painting was the overwhelming light at the end of some dark tunnel. Having reached this painting, the pyramidal structure of the saints with the Virgin at the apex would have guided the viewer upwards and toward heaven. The Virgin undergoes the transformation both physically and spiritually, just as the viewer undergoes the spiritual transformation. In this sense, this group of paint-

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art history -ings reinforce the transformative potency of the Church upon the individual, something that would not have been lost on the viewer in the aftermath of the Jubilee Year of 1600 in Rome. During this Holy Year, pilgrims could be absolved of their sins and the Church laid a strong emphasis on conversions. Although the horror of St. Peter’s ordeal would have been hard to swallow for most viewers in the chapel, the restorative and healing powers of faith countered this fear, in the form of the Conversion and in the context of the recent Jubilee Year. It has been quite insightful to discuss those paintings which were celebrated and which positively reinforced the ideals of the Counter Reformation. However, it’s also interesting to consider those paintings that were rejected by the Church. Caravaggio’s Death of the Virgin (Figure 3) was commissioned by Laerzio Cherubini for the Carmelite church of S. Maria della Scala. The dead Virgin lies across a narrow wooden bed while the disciples assemble around her, united in their grief but isolated from one another in their private experience of this grief. Following its installation in the church however, the painting was subsequently taken down. There are many aspects in this painting that incurred the indignation of Church members but, given the preceding discussion on the role of art to instruct and guide, I will focus on Caravaggio’s treatment of the Virgin. The subject matter of the painting surely calls for a dignified setting, one designed to accord the Virgin the reverence she is owed as the Mother of Christ. Instead, she is laid across an inadequate wooden board, her feet reaching over the edge. Whereas Caravaggio’s Crucifixion of St. Peter in the Cerasi Chapel functioned in a group to relate to the viewer a sense of triumph in death, the Death of the Virgin invokes a sense of decay.; the Virgin lies bloated and in a disheveled state, a reminder of the mortality to which every person is subject to. In terms of the treatment of the Virgin, Caravaggio was perhaps too humble in his ambitions to convey the immediacy of the event. Although the painting effectively evokes the compassion of its viewer, it is no wonder that it was rejected by the church of s. Maria della Scala. Whereas Anniblae depicted victory and release in death, thus presenting the daily struggle as worthwhile, Caravaggio’s painting presents his viewer with a grim description of both life and death, devoid of any didactic function. I have discussed Annibale Carracci’s Stoning of St. Stephen against the backdrop of scholarly disdain for the maniera style and Protestant opposition to the extravagance and corruptness of the Church. In response to the materialistic concerns of both painting and the Church, religious art revealed a pared down approach to narrative in painting. The Cerasi Chapel represents a response to the Protestant opposition of the veneration of the Virgin and the saints, while it also reinforces the belief in the transubstantiation. Finally, Caravaggio’s Death of the Virgin highlights the importance of the demand or decorum in religious imagery from the clergy.

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art history Bibliography Haskell, Francis. Patrons and Painters. Yale University Press. 1980 Langdon, Helen. Caravaggio: A Life. Pimlico. 1999 Wittowker, Rudolph. Art and Architecture in Italy, 1600-1750. Early Baroque. Penguin Books. 1999. Posner, Donald. Annibale Carracci. A Study in the Reform of Painting around 1590. Volume 1. Phaidon. Freedberg, David. The Representations of Martyrdoms in Counter-Reformation Antwerp in Burlingotn Magazine, 876 (1976) Jones, Pamela. Altarpieces and Their Viewers in the Churches of Rome, from Caravaggio to Guido Reni. 2008. Bellori, Giovanni Pietro. Lives of the Modern Painters, Sculptors and Architects. Cambridge University Press. 2005

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‘A Bit of Genius’ Ernest Kavanagh, Cartoonist of the Irish Worker James Chrisopher Curry

Postgraduate Student, History On the morning of Easter Tuesday, 25 April 1916, Ernest Kavanagh left his Ranelagh home and set out for Liberty Hall, the headquarters of the Irish Transport and General Workers Union (ITGWU) where he was employed as an insurance clerk. However, this time Kavanagh was not simply reporting for work as per normal: less than twenty-four hours earlier Dublin had been plunged into chaos and confusion following the outbreak of the most famous rebellion in Irish history. Liberty Hall had been central to this development in that it was where James Connolly assembled a sizable contingent of the Irish Volunteer and Irish Citizen Army (ICA) troops that would take over the General Post Office and other city locations on that fateful Easter Monday afternoon. An ‘inherent antipathy to discipline’ was later claimed to have prevented Kavanagh from taking up a soldier’s life and marching alongside Connolly’s men that day (Catholic Bulletin, December 1917). However, the guilt he experienced overnight prompted a hasty return to Liberty Hall the following morning to enquire if he could be of help to any rebels who might still be occupying the building. This move came despite his own admission to not knowing ‘one end of a rifle from the other’ (Workers’ Voice, July 1932) and the ‘strange presentiment of his death’ (Catholic Bulletin, December 1917) he experienced before leaving his home on the Oxford Road, a feeling of foreboding that was to prove tragically accurate. For as Kavanagh approached Liberty Hall from the direction of Tara Street he was spotted by British troops, stationed at the side of Dublin’s Custom House facing Beresford Place, and fatally shot in full view of the building’s caretaker (Robbins, 1977, p. 239). He was just thirty-two years old at the time of his death. When pressed on the matter by Irish MP’s at Westminster in the months afterwards the British government would claim that Kavanagh had most likely been the victim of a stray ICA bullet from the opposite direction, a theory hard to find credible both then and now (Bateson, 2010, pp. 253-60). At any rate, what is undeniably certain is that the shooting brought an end to the life

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art history of a distinguished cartoonist who, in his spare time over the previous four years, had contributed a host of notable illustrations to labour, nationalist and feminist newspapers, some of which were reprinted overseas. Although Kavanagh’s cartoons would appear in publications such as Fianna, Irish Freedom and the Irish Citizen, it was undoubtedly those featured in Jim Larkin’s weekly newspaper, the Irish Worker, which resulted in “E.K.” gaining the most fame and notoriety. This popular labour journal had been founded by Larkin in May 1911 and was an instrumental tool in aiding the growth of the ITGWU over the coming years. Featuring notoriously direct and savage attacks against all perceived enemies of the Irish working class, the newspaper – which regularly attracted writers of the calibre of James Connolly, Sean O’Casey and Standish O’Grady – would prove to be a perfect platform to showcase Kavanagh’s artistic talents. A maxim exists in the world of photography that a good snapshot should never have to be explained to the audience. The same rule is equally applicable to satirical cartoons and was a skill that Kavanagh possessed in greater abundance than any of the Irish Worker’s previous illustrators. For although forceful in their message, his illustrations were also often imbued with a range of subtleties in terms of their characterisation and attention to detail. His first contribution to Larkin’s weekly paper captures this complex simplicity perfectly. Above a caption which refuted claims in the national daily press that the interests of employers and workers were identical, Kavanagh depicted a scene in which a labourer toiled away with a pickaxe while his observing employer stood patronisingly by, smoking a large cigar (Irish Worker, July 1912). As the sweat from the labourers’ brow drips downwards, the smoke from the employers’ cigar bellows upwards. As the labourer glances up from his bent over position, the employer stands upright and peers down. The labourer’s pulled-up sleeves clearly reveals a muscular physique, in stark contrast to the employer’s concealed though obviously bloated figure. The underlying suggestion behind all of these contrasts is that the abused workers should ignore the mainstream press and realise that in their hands is a weapon that can topple complacent employers and bring about the rectifying of all their industrial grievances. This notion echoes Larkin’s dismissal of the ‘capitalist’ press and call for Ireland’s labouring class to symbolically ‘forge their weapons and fight’ in the first issue of the Irish Worker (May 1911). In other words, it demonstrates how Kavanagh’s cartoons perfectly complimented the rest of the Irish Worker’s content and why he would go on to become so synonymous with the publication. Unlike earlier artistic contributors he recognised quite clearly that more could be achieved by satirising villains instead of glorifying heroes, a realisation that gave his work greater vitality and power. Emphasising his suitability for the paper, Kavanagh would mostly work in collaboration with various poets (including his celebrated sister, Maeve Kavanagh, described as ‘the poetess of the revolution’ by James Connolly) to help

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art history reinforce and bring their verse to life (Fox, 1935, p. 153). In an era where illiteracy was a regular feature of working class life and in which the Irish Worker faced fierce competition every week, the importance of Kavanagh’s cartoons should not be underestimated. With two-thirds appearing on the front-page they were undoubtedly a ‘widely appreciated’ feature of the paper, clearly designed to get people talking and attract a new readership (Fox, 1935, p. 156). Although he would respond to the outbreak of World War One with a series of ‘biting cartoons’ in which John Redmond was attacked for his stance on the recruitment of Irish soldiers, it was Kavanagh’s earlier illustrations during the Dublin Lockout for which he will probably always be best remembered (Casey, 1980, p. 44). The principal targets during this period were invariably William Martin Murphy, the leader of the Dublin Federation of Employers seeking to smash the ITGWU in 1913, and the Dublin Police who were accused of aiding this quest. Both had been targeted prior to the Lockout. And if the paper’s attacks in print regularly succeeded in ridiculing opponents they were ‘not nearly as effective’, as one historian has noted, ‘as the savagely brilliant cartoons’ of Kavanagh (Keogh, 1978, p. 15). For example, one infamous illustration from September 1912 depicted the ITGWU as a stone wall closing in around a trapped Murphy whose chariot hurtles towards an inevitable collision with Larkin’s men. Sitting calmly beside his bulging bags of money which have been ‘plundered from the workers’, Murphy whips his exhausted horses while trampling the babies and womenfolk of the workers to death (Irish Worker, September 1912). This was the type of piece sure to result in threats of libel action for the Irish Worker and would later become the norm during the course of the Lockout as tensions heightened to fever pitch. Indeed, within a week of the great industrial dispute breaking out the following year, Kavanagh returned to the paper’s pages after a six-month hiatus with a notorious front-page illustration that depicted Murphy, who later claimed the piece was an ‘incitement to murder’ him (Irish Times, October 1913), as a vulture perched atop his mansion’s front gates while peering down at the prostrate corpse of a worker (Irish Worker, September 1913). As the editor of the Irish Worker it was not just Larkin who was liable for Kavanagh’s cartoons: the artist himself was also undoubtedly putting himself at personal risk with the content of some of his illustrations, a fact demonstrated by the decision of the British military to raid his home and destroy ‘the cream of his work’ in the early months of 1916 (Catholic Bulletin, December 1917). When the imprisoned Countess Markievicz, a good friend of the Kavanagh family, was informed of Ernest’s death by her sister Eva Gore-Booth (which occurred shortly afterwards) she spoke of her sadness and was determined that steps to preserve his legacy should be made: I was so sorry to hear about Ernest. He was a bit of a genius. Will try and write something. Tell Maeve to collect his drawings, original and reproductions. We’ll

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art history bring them out some day (Van Vorris, 1967, p. 266). Accordingly, Kavanagh’s sister and her husband went about the process of collecting his cartoons and the first of a planned four editions of “E.K’s” work was published in 1917. With Markievicz still incarcerated in an England prison the introduction was instead ‘unworthily’ penned by Cathal MacDowell, Ernest’s brother-in-law, who wrote: Ernest Kavanagh was a keen student of human nature... men that he deemed hypocrites, cowards, tyrants, or liars, these he minutely dissected... His technique may not be perfect, but his message in each case is clearly and forcibly told... [He] used his talents without any remuneration to raise the ideals of others to the level of his own... [He was] a most talented and thoughtful artist. (McDowell, 1917, pp. 1-2) While a good introduction to “E.K.’s” work and invaluable in that almost half of the twenty illustrations it contains were either unpublished or appeared on contemporary postcards that would probably now be otherwise lost, the booklet nonetheless fails to do him justice. Many of Kavanagh’s most vivid and memorable surviving pieces are missing and, in light of the failure to publish the other three planned editions of his illustrations, it is to the Irish Worker that we are best advised to turn in order to gain a greater appreciation of his artistic efforts to free Ireland from what he perceived as the twin evils of capitalism and British occupancy. Ernest Kavanagh, ‘a close personal friend’ of Jim Larkin, was buried at Glasnevin Cemetery on 2 May 1916 (McDowell, 1917, pp. 1-2). His sister would later dedicate several poems to his memory, including To “E.K.”, from which the following extract is taken: When first they told me you were dead, I scarcely felt grief ’s pain, Straight in the face I looked black dread, And barred it from my brain. I shed no tears, I turned to hear Your step at every sound, So strong your presence seemed and near That Wonder sorrow drowned. How strange it seemed, I saw a draft, Your hands had just left there, And all the small things of your craft Beside your empty chair.

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art history Brother and sister were we two Comrades, soul-friends beside, And yet how dear I hardly knew Till now when you have died. (Kavanagh, 1916, pp. 24-25)

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art history

Figs. 1-4: Cartoons by Ernest Kavanagh

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art history

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art history Bibliography Bateson, Ray, They Died by Pearse’s Side, Dublin, Irish Graves Publications, 2010 Fox, R.M., Rebel Irish Women, London, Talbot Press, 1935 O’Casey, The Story of the Irish Citizen Army, London, Journeyman Press, 1980 Robbins, Frank, Under the Starry Plough: Recollections of the Irish Citizen Army, Dublin, Academy Press, 1977 Van Vorris, Jacqueline, Constance de Markievicz in the cause of Ireland, Boston, University of Massachussets, 1967 Kavanagh, Maeve, Ernest Kavanagh of ‘The Worker’, Dublin, 1917 Kavanagh, Maeve, A Voice of Insurgency, Dublin, 1916

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How Did Advances in Building Materials Enable Frank Lloyd Wright to Pursue his Vision of Organic Architecture? Siobhán De Paor Senior Sophister, Art History and English Frank Lloyd Wright (1867-1959) is considered by many to be one of the most prolific architects of the twentieth century. Though one of the heralds of a modern architecture, he built in a very different way than the international modernists of Europe and had a disdain for their bare, often impractical style. He believed above all that architecture should be organic, bringing people closer to nature. He achieved this by bringing “vista without and vista within” (Wright, 17) his buildings. Wright’s organic approach to architecture spread further than just taking inspiration from natural forms. It also included his creative philosophy, to unify all elements of a building, making an integrated whole. This integration could only be realized with the use of new materials and technology which Wright embraced fully. Steel and concrete gave him new materials in which to create new forms, and he believed that new technology had liberated wood and glass, allowing them truer expression. He exclaims in his book The Natural House “Had steel, concrete and glass existed in the ancient order we could have had nothing like our ponderous, senseless “classic” architecture.”(23). Wright had no real interest in applying obsolete unoriginal historical styles to his work, no longer using the full capabilities of the available materials or meeting their inhabitants’ needs. With the turn of the twentieth century, he believed that “Architects were no longer tied to Greek space but were freer to enter into the space of Einstein” (21). The reality of building had changed and Wright wished to reflect this truthfully in his forms through the use of any material, synthetic or natural, which helped him achieve this. The idea of the organic work of art was not original to Wright. An avid reader of transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), Wright was surely influenced by his ideas on the natural world outlined in the essay “Nature” of 1836. Louis Sullivan (1856-1924), Wright’s mentor, also advocated looking to nature for inspiration, saying “We, in our art are to follow Nature’s

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art history rhythms, because those processes, those rhythms are vital, organic, coherent, logical above all book-logic, and flow…” (Davies, 122). Sullivan’s ideas in relation to form always preceding function were the starting point for Wright’s conceptions of the organic building as an integrated whole; eventually leading him to outrightly equate form to function (“form and function are one”). Whereas Sullivan had stated that a building must look appropriate to its function, Wright came to believe that a building was the function it performed. Nature is the central and guiding principle of organic architecture and Wright uses it in two distinct senses, the external and the internal. On an external level, Wright believed that nature offered man an organic simplicity in its patterns which should be emulated. Wright consciously took the height out of his earlier prairie houses, making them low with horizontal lines in an effort to keep them close to the ground; “…it is in the nature of any organic building to grow from its site, come out of the ground into the light- the ground itself held always as a component basic part of the building itself ” (Wright, 49). So architecture in his view was to actively mould with its natural surroundings, to appear complementary and responsive to nature, becoming an extension of the vista. The building was to be “…dignified as a tree in the midst of nature…” (Wright, 50) Wright used the height of the human as his building scale. A low, spreading roof with projecting eaves should offer protection and a feeling of shelter, driving the inhabitant’s line of sight outside to the natural world. Interior space should be broken up as little as possible and a unified sense of interior massing should be felt throughout. The second sense in which Wright uses nature in his organic architecture is in trying to bring out the internal nature of a form. The internal nature of a building being organic, simple and unified was Wright’s goal when designing. Sullivan had taught Wright the importance of flow in a building’s design and this is what Wright himself would call “continuity” in his work. Merfyn Davies describes this idea of continuity that enables organic architecture succinctly: the problem as Wright saw it was ‘to weave the plan into a sense of the whole’. The plan however logical, however well organised, could never be fully resolved unless conceived and developed, not only from a functional aspect, but also as an inherent element of the ‘whole’, of the organic entity. Neither the plan, section, nor form, nor any other aspect of a building could be conceived in isolation from the conception of the whole. It is this that makes the organic theory so difficult to comprehend and so difficult to put into practice. A place where Wright successfully put his theory into practice on a philosophical level was at Unity Temple, Oak Park, Illinois, of 1908. Its name is quite apt as it is the embodiment of a unified design, described by Edgar Kaufmann Jr. as “a gem of pure serenity” (Placzek, 437). Wright incorporated the religious and social functions of the building into the design, making a H-

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art history shaped plan, with an entrance hall that connected the two distinct parts of the building. Its main worship space is a simple square with light entering from clerestory windows which illuminates the whole space. The exterior expresses this clearly with its plain geometrical concrete walls. One of the most significant things about Unity Temple is that it was the first poured concrete building in the United States. Wright used concrete to convey the monumentality of masonry without the expense. The new material also expressed a message which went beyond applied ornament and archaic religious symbols, about man’s contemplation of his relationship with God, which needs no distraction. A crucial element of Wright’s organic architecture was the way in which he used materials. Wright believed that it was important to let materials be true to their nature and to express them as such: “I began to learn to see brick as brick…and learned to see concrete or glass or metal each for itself…Each different material required a different handling, and each different handling as well as the material itself had new possibilities of use…” (Wright, 23). Used in the right way, materials contributed to the plasticity and continuity of a building. Synthetic materials could also be used in a way to express their nature, their capabilities and suitability. For instance, steel according to Wright, was “the epic of this age” (Pfeiffer, 98) likening it to the bones of the hand which the architect must flesh over. It was “wholly dependent upon imaginative influences for “life” in any aesthetic sense at the hand of a creator” (Pfeiffer, 98) wrote Wright, which architects often found daunting, leading them to use it in ways that did not express its potential. It was cheap and strong and highly neglected according to Wright in his In the Cause of Architecture: Steel. Combined with concrete which was akin to the flesh covering the bones, all manner of forms could be executed, making reinforced concrete “…the physical body of the modern, civilized world…” (Pfeiffer, 100). Fallingwater at Bear Run, Pennsylvania, built in 1936, exemplifies this use of reinforced concrete to achieve a form both organic and progressive. Henry-Russell Hitchcock describes the romanticism of Fallingwater aptly: “A house over a waterfall sounds like a poet’s dream. A house cantilevered over a waterfall is rather the realized dream of an engineer” (90). While its huge concrete cantilevers project over a waterfall in a way that is almost reminiscent of the prow of a ship or the wings of a plane, the house still affords a sense of protection and shelter with its low ceilings and main body backing onto a hillside. Local Pottsville sandstone makes up the masonry core which the cantilevers project from; and in turn the whole structure is anchored into the hillside. Because of the synthetic materials that made this project possible, Fallingwater is now renowned for its sheer organic beauty as William Allin Storrer explains: “Perched over a waterfall deep in the Pennsylvania highlands, it seems part of the rock formations to which it clings…” (236)

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art history Another facet to Wright’s conception of organic architecture was that the development of a building ideally would not end with the initial construction. Wright wanted to achieve a mode of building that was more akin to an ongoing process, growing over time. In his Usonian homes, which were projects for cheaper houses, Wright was able to achieve this potential for development. Through the help of machine production, materials both new and old, could be affordably produced to build houses that were structurally sound but that could be rebuilt and extended without much difficulty. The Hanna house of 1936 built for a couple in Stanford University fulfilled this function. Built on a hexagonal unit system, with a base of concrete, the interior walls were all made of wood in order to accommodate the changing roles that the house would take over the years. Until 1957, many walls partitioned off children’s bedrooms and rooms for visiting students. After this, the house easily changed its interior structure, the Hannas extending the master bedroom and making a large library after the children had grown and left. They also built a workshop further up the sloping hill that the house is built on in 1950. The exterior walls are made of San Jose brick, and the roof originally of copper. There is no doubt that Frank Lloyd Wright could not have explored his vision of organic architecture without the developments in building materials and machine production. He enhanced the structures of his designs and the lives of their inhabitants by using the solutions that technology had offered him instead of applying an unsatisfying conventional form. This did not mean forsaking tradition altogether; rather, it meant using steel, concrete or glass where its properties would further Wright’s organics. New materials enhanced the old; and this was suited to Wright’s philosophy of growth and change over time. His organic architecture was given expression in the possibilities of new forms that materials gave, but these new forms never lost sight of the central principle of nature, which was all-governing in Wright’s imagination.

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art history Bibliography Curtis, William J.R Modern Architecture Since 1900 London: Phaidon Press Ltd., 2007 Davies, Merfyn; “The Embodiment of the Concept of Organic Expression: Frank Lloyd Wright” Architectural History, Vol. 25, 120-168, 1982 Frampton, Kenneth, Modern Architecture A Critical History London: Thames & Hudson Ltd., 2007 Hanna, Paul R and Jean S. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Hanna House The Client’s Report Cambridge, Massachusetts; London, England: The MIT Press, 1981 Heinz, Thomas A. Frank Lloyd Wright London Academy Editions, 1992 Hitchcock, Henry- Russell; In the Nature of Materials 1887-1941 The Buildings of Frank Lloyd Wright London: Trewin Copplestone Publishing Ltd., 1942 Patterson, Terry L. Frank Lloyd Wright and the Meaning of Materials New York; London: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1994 Pfeiffer, Bruce Brooks (Ed.); The Essential Frank Lloyd Wright: critical writings on architecture Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008 Adolf K. Placzek, (Ed.) Macmillan encyclopaedia of architects (Vol. 4) New York: Free Press; London: Collier Macmillan, 1982. Storrer, William Allin; The Frank Lloyd Wright Companion Chicago: University of Chicago Press; Bristol: University Presses Marketing [distributor], 2007. Toker, Franklin; Fallingwater Rising New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2003 Twombly, Robert C. Frank Lloyd Wright His Life and His Architecture New York; Toronto: John Wiley& Sons , New York, 1979 Wright, Frank Lloyd; The Natural House London: Pitman Publishing, 1971

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Classics

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The Voice of the Vanquished in Virgil’s Aeneid Grainne Clear

Senior Sophister, English And Classics In order to discuss the voice of the vanquished in Virgil’s Aeneid, we must first consider what we mean by the term “vanquished”. The Oxford English Dictionary defines it as something defeated, overcome or subdued, and throughout the course of the poem, many characters come under the wrath of such terms in different ways. The connecting factor between them can be seen in the ultimate reason for their vanquished state; the creation of Rome. As Adam Parry puts it simply yet aptly, “the progress towards Rome, in human terms, is not a happy one” (Parry, 1963). I will first examine the beloved Dido, and the way in which she is emotionally, physically and spiritually vanquished by Aeneas and his duty. Turnus, the ultimate Italian hero, as well as the fleeting but poignant character of Camilla, demonstrate the destruction of the Italian people, which leads us to a consideration of the Italian country as a whole, and the ruin of the land itself. The character of Dido is first introduced to us in book one, and here we meet her as the queen of Carthage. She is the law-giving, fair and just ruler of the newly founded city, and is a great figure of power. She is, in many ways, a parallel of Aeneas himself, or at least what he will become in the near future. However, the decision of Juno and Venus to stir love in Dido’s heart brings about a great change in her character, and from book one to book four the focus as well as the authoritative voice has shifted away from the protagonist, giving a whole different insight into the mind of Dido. Incredible pathos is aroused by her suffering and rejection, and we cannot help but identify with the queen, despite her symbolic opposition to all that is Rome. Attracted to Aeneas by the will of the gods and by his virti virtus, Dido stumbles into the arms of a man who will later reject her. As Damien Nelis points out, her tale in many ways parallels that of Medea, and other scholars have noted similarities with Ariadne also. Such allusion to other vanquished women creates a sense of foreboding from the very beginning. Virgil creates an extremely poignant simile of a doe shot by a shepherd, which carries the 79


Classics arrow in its flank despite attempting to flee. The doomed deer carries on almost unaware of the death that will follow from such an injury. Aeneas, the shepherd of the Trojan men, has shot her deeply with his arrow, creating a hidden wound which links in with the first lines of book four, where Dido “nurses her heart’s deep wound”. It can also be seen as a reference to the actual arrow that has been shot by Cupid. Through this imagery, Aeneas becomes the victor, and Dido the victim. Their parallelism has therefore been disrupted in this game of love, and Virgil expertly places her as the focus of sympathy for the reader (Perkell, 1999, p. 84). With such a simile and with the many allusions to doomed women of other tales, dramatic irony comes into full play and we wait with bated breath for the imminent and inevitable desertion. Throughout the course of this book, Dido makes eight passionate speeches, which take up a huge amount of the overall text. Aeneas, however, makes only one, and it is a feeble effort to defend himself against her overwhelming sorrow at his desertion. As Adam Parry notes, “Virgil deliberately presented Dido as a heroine, and Aeneas as an inglorious deserter. Dido’s speeches are passionate, and, in their operatic way, ring utterly true. Aeneas can apologize only by urging that his will is not his own” (Parry, 1963). And yet, to combat the lack of words spoken by the hero, Virgil presents us with a simile which perfectly expresses the emotions being felt by both Dido and Aeneas at this moment. He tells us that “Alpine winds ...struggle to uproot at an ancient oak”(5.511L), an image of Dido’s efforts to move Aeneas’ heart. The fact that the tree is an oak is of course relevant, as it is Jupiter’s power that controls his heart and mind and turns it against the pleading Dido. “But the tree clings to the crag, and as high as its crown Reaches to heaven, so deep do its roots sink into the earth” Aeneas is presented as on a brink, somewhere between the land and the sea, between two minds as to whether to stay or go. The crown of the tree, Aeneas’ mind, tells him that he must follow the heavenly orders, but his feet are literally rooted to the ground of Carthage and cannot bear to leave. Such an incredible simile arouses huge pathos both for Dido and the unmovable Aeneas, and the reader cannot help but shed the tears that our hero sheds in leaves that strew the ground. Aeneas’ departure does not end book four, but we stay with Dido long after he has left. Dido’s death is built up to over the course of the fourth book, and begins with the first lines which tell us that “dark flames licked at her soul”(4.3L). This connection between an inner fire and the outer one that will end her life is no coincidence, as it highlights the direct connection between her passionate love and her ultimate suicide. Her death is not that 80


Classics of any ordinary heroine, such as the hangings we find in other contemporary stories, but death upon a pyre. The symbolism of her demise is something we cannot ignore, as she chooses a death that will reach out to Aeneas as he sails away from her city. Even the heavens are moved to pity for the death of the queen, and Juno intervenes to relieve her soul as she observes that her “death was neither fated nor deserved but before her day and in the heat of passion” (4.812L). She is a victim of Rome, but will certainly not be the last. The voice of the vanquished also extends beyond Dido, mainly into the Italians which also fall victim to Aeneas’ quest. The greatest example of this is of course the mighty Turnus, who takes centre stage for the Iliadic half of Virgil’s epic. He is the greatest fighter of all the Italians, and their unquestioned leader in the battle against the invading Trojans. From book seven onwards, a picture is painted of the great hero, with youthful beauty, nobility and great deeds to his name. Scylla tells Aeneas in book six that Turnus is “another Achilles”, and this is echoed later by Turnus himself upon his entering the Trojan stronghold on the Latin shore. But despite the many great features that Turnus displays in books seven to eleven, including violentia, audacia and fiducia, the reader knows from previous experience that those who stand in the way of Rome will not be allowed to live (Parry, 1963). Book twelve is of course the book in which Turnus meets his end, and from the very first word we are told by the poet that this last chapter will be one based around the tragedy of Turnus. Opening with a simile, Virgil compares Turnus to a mighty lion, cornered by hunters yet fearless in the face of death. As MCJ Putnam points out, this comparison to a lion has been used by Homer for the characters of Diomedes, Hector and Achilles, his greatest heroes of the Iliad (Perkell, 1999, pg. 212). By invoking a similar image, our poet wishes the reader to invoke a similar standard when we think of the hero Turnus, and reminds us that his death will be just as tragic. Aeneas is once again the hunter, and has once again wounded an animal in the chest, just as with the image of Dido. Here, however, the animal is no helpless doe but a mighty lion with “bloodstained mouth”(12.9L) whose roars will be heard. Book twelve is a book of extreme pathos, arousing similar emotions of pity and fear as we found in the book of Dido. As the battle rages on, Turnus insists, in his courage, that a duel is the only way to solve the dispute. Despite Aeneas’ coming at him will full force, Turnus does not recognise the roles that have been allocated to the two heroes, and cannot see that he is no longer an Achilles but the forsaken Hector. And yet, this hopelessness in his fight against the overwhelming power of Aeneas is perhaps what makes Tur81


Classics nus the great hero that he is. In Homeric epic, we cheer for the human side as they fight against the omniscient gods, and they gain our respect purely for their fight in the face of inevitable destruction. The same can surely be applied here to Turnus, who knows before the battle begins that “the Fates triumph at last”, and that his death cannot be delayed even by the help of Juturna. “We will follow where God and cruel Fortune call us. My mind us made up, I will meet Aeneas and bear death’s bitterness”(12.814L). These words are those of a true hero, willing to die for the small effect it will have on the saving of his country and unafraid of the death that awaits him. The audience cannot help but support the words of this vanquished champion as he faces the character that should be our hero, the pitiless Aeneas. With Turnus’ words, these two great men are now suddenly presented as on a par with one another, supported by the simile employed by Virgil of two great bulls facing one another. Their equality is truly on a different level than that of their Homeric counterparts, as the gods have now turned their eyes away from the battle, and it is purely man versus man. When this is torn asunder by Jupiter’s eventual intervention and the sending of a Fury to inspire terror in our Italian hero, we cannot help but feel that it is all terribly unfair. A terrible allusion to the battle of Troy is made with Turnus’ raising of a huge boulder which he attempts to throw at Aeneas, just as Diomedes does in the Iliad. However, in this case, the dread causes his strength to fail and he cannot defend himself against the powerful Trojan. With one final attempt at greatness, Turnus implores him to “let your hatred stop here”(12.1138L), a powerful sentence speaking about his own right to a proper burial, but extending also to Aeneas’ treatment of the Italian people and allies of Turnus on the battlefield. Aeneas, instead of respecting such wishes, destroys the great Italian in a fit of pure rage, and buries his sword in Turnus’ chest. With the destruction of so many of its people, one might raise the question of whether the land of Italy itself can be counted among the vanquished in this poem. Throughout the second half of the poem, characters profess the greatness of the Italian people and the excellence of the life they lead. They are depicted as peaceful, unused to war, but still ferocious and hardy when the moment for battle comes upon them. The speech of Numanus Remulus creates a powerful image of the “tough breed”, those whose “lives are worn away with iron”, be it with tools of the land or weapons of war. These are a race of men well worthy of the host of Trojan warriors, and yet we feel a strong pity for the disruption of the peaceful lives which Aeneas has disrupted in the name of Rome. 82


Classics Adam Parry points out the mourning of the very land of Italy at the death and suffering of its people. At the death of Umbro, one of the many Italian leaders, Virgil describes the reaction of the land to his passing “For you the grove of Angitia mourned, and Fucinus’ glassy waters, And the clear lakes”. Such words remind us that the Italians are not just a people, but are the race of a land. The poet suggests that the very earth itself recognises the destruction being brought down upon it, and the loss of its greatest men. As Parry tells us, “Umbro himself is not important. He is no more than a made-up name. The real pathos is for the places that mourn him. They are the true victims of Aeneas’s war, and in saying that they weep, Virgil calls on us to weep for what to his mind made an earlier Italy fresh and true” (Parry, 1963). We can question whether Virgil meant us to go quite this far with his image, but there is a definite sense of loss in the land. Something of his nostalgia for the heroic past is felt in this “pervasive sadness”, and the image created in our minds is of something natural and pure, denoted by the words glassy and clear, being vanquished. Such characters as the mighty Camilla are representative of the Italian people and country as a whole. As David O. Ross tells us, “Camilla is the closest Virgil got to allegory” (Ross, 2007, pg. 49), as he identifies her closely with the land of Italy itself. Her origins as a chaste devotee of Diana, living the “life of shepherds in the lonely mountains”, and her transformation to a warrior maiden comment on the metamorphoses that war necessitates. The poet gives us thorough characterisation despite her brief appearance, and arouses incredible sympathy for her situation and ultimate death at the hands of the Trojans. As William S Anderson puts it, “Vergil, although living in the highly prejudiced culture of Rome and writing within the limits of that cultural bias has nevertheless created in the female figure of Camilla a powerfully sympathetic, even heroic, representative of the Italian people” (Perkell, 1999, pg. 203). In many ways, this comment sums up my own feelings about the character of Camilla. She is fierce, beautiful and capable of commanding great armies of men, and throughout book eleven she cuts down her foes with just as little mercy as any man. There is not a hint of chauvinism in the Italian mind, and she is depicted as far above many of the Trojan men she comes up against, most notably Ornytus and Arruns. Even her dying words are a testament to her fighting spirit, as she issues orders to warn Turnus of what has happened and to avoid an ambush. The extent of the patriotism of the Italians is overwhelming, and we cannot help but be affected by their courage and strength. Through characters such as Turnus and Camilla, Virgil forces the Roman reader and the 83


Classics spective of the vanquished. Virgil constantly stresses the greatness of Rome and the splendour that will follow once the city has been founded, but we must note that “What we find, again and again, is not a sense of triumph, but a sense of loss” after the death of such characters of Turnus and Camilla (Parry, 1963). This purposely makes us question whether all of this war and wasted life is truly worth what is to follow, and reminds us that Aeneas leaves the wonderful Parade of Heroes through the Ivory Gate; the gate of false dreams. The very last lines of the poem, the moment which describes the death of great Turnus, is one which in many ways ties together the vanquished Italians of this poem. Camilla, Dido and Turnus all die in the same way, with a long drawn out final sigh. They are also all young heroes who should not yet die, and have been vanquished by Aeneas purely for the completion of his quest. The death of all three is “neither fated nor deserved”, and we cannot help but feel real sorrow for their vanquishment as their souls flee “resentfully down to the shades”. The same lines are used for Patroclus and Hector in the Iliad, the most mourned of the heroes in Homer. So too are Virgil’s characters sorely missed after they are vanquished, as they were characters that hold great respect among both their fellow characters and the readers of Virgil’s epic. Lombardo himself also makes a statement on the nature of the Aeneid, and the way in which Virgil so clearly gives voice to the vanquished. The cover of his translation features an image of the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial from Washington DC, which is engraved with the name of every man who died in service or remains unaccounted for after the Vietnam War. Can this not equally be applied to the Aeneid? It can be seen as a record of all those vanquished in the creation of the Roman state, those who would otherwise be forgotten. So many strong and pious characters lose their life throughout the course of the poem, all in the name of Aeneas’ ultimate goal, many of them namelessly on the battlefield except for Virgil’s descriptions of them. Through his close camera angles and intimate views of so many, including the wonderful Dido, Turnus, Camilla, Nisus and Euryalus, and even Aeneas, Virgil creates something of a memorial. The Aeneid begins with the poem’s subject, “arms I sing – and a man”, a tale of Aeneas and his battles. But with the recognition of the great battles and the great loss that was necessitated by the foundation of Rome, our poet realises that “a higher order of things Opens before me, a greater work now begins”. In writing the Aeneid, perhaps Virgil wishes to truly question Horace when he claims the famous line, “Dulce et decorum est pro 84


Classics after, “Yet death chases after the soldier who runs, and it won’t spare the cowardly back or the limbs, of peace-loving young men”. No peace-loving Italian, more accustomed to the plough than the spear, is spared in the battle for his country. Like the image upon the Temple of Hera in Carthage, this work is his memorial; his voice which he gives to the vanquished. As Parry tells us, Virgil insists that the reader recognise “the terrible price one must pay for this glory. More than blood, sweat and tears, something more precious is continually being lost by the necessary process; human freedom, love, personal loyalty, all the qualities which the heroes of Homer represent, are lost in the service of what is grand, monumental and impersonal: the Roman State” (Parry, 1963).

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Classics Bibliography Edgeworth, R.J., “The Death of Dido”, www.jstor.org Homer, Iliad, trans. Richmond Lattimore, Routledge & Kegan Paul, London, 1951 Lyne, O., Further Voices in Vergil’s Aeneid, Clarendon, Oxford, 1987 Martindale, C.A.(ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Virgil, Cambridge, 1997 Nelis, D, Vergil’s Aeneid and the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, Francis Cairns, Leeds, 2001 Parry, Adam, “The Two Voices of Virgil’s Aeneid”, from Arion 2, no. 4 Winter 1963 from www.jstor.org Perkell, C.G.(ed.), Reading Virgil’s Aeneid: An Interpretive Guide, Oklahoma University Press, 1999 Ross, D.O., Virgil’s Aeneid: A Reader’s Guide, Malden/Oxford, Blackwell, 2007 Virgil, Aeneid, trans. Stanley Lombardo, Hackett Publishing Company Inc., USA, 2005

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The Viability of Roman Imperial Biography Charlie Kerrigan

Senior Freshman, History and Latin “Biography is the mesh through which real life escapes.” - Tom Stoppard (1937- ) Biography is a form as popular in modern times as it was in antiquity. In any age, we are attracted to characters, to their lives and to their exploits, and so bion graphien, to ‘write a life’ has always held an attraction. A life as an example, as an inspiration, or as a warning, is an ever popular concept, no less so for the Romans and their mos majorum. But biography is tricky medium, difficult to define and always close to history, with subtle differences between its ancient and modern form. So some definition is needed before we can examine the problems with, and the viability of, a biography of a first-century A.D. Roman emperor. What do we think of as modern biography? The Oxford English Dictionary gives “the history of the lives of individual men, as a branch of literature,” while Arnaldo Momigliano states that ‘an account of the life of man from birth to death is what I call biography’ (Momigliano, 1971, p.11). There is a focus on the question “what sort of man was he?” and on the subject’s life and times. Scholarly biographies still favour influential historical personalities; Collins, Churchill, and Stalin to name a few, but there is also a strong contemporary market for ‘celebrity’ subjects, including sports stars and musicians. Was this view of biography similar in antiquity? D.A. Russell mentions three distinctions between ancient and modern in relation to Plutarch, namely that ancient biographies relegated chronology to a minor position, often made moral assumptions about their subject, and favoured examining their character over their wider historical influence (Russell, 1971, p. 102). Suetonius can be taken as an example of this style: in the de vita Caesarum he is at times sensationalist and judgemental to a degree which is unacceptable to modern scholarly biography. He is a scholar, an antiquarian, and an official, who documented and wrote on a vast array of often obscure 87


Classics topics. As with Plutarch, there is a focus on the personality of each subject as well as elements of historical narrative, but one can definitely see a distinction in form between the biography of Suetonius and the history of Tacitus (Wallace-Hadrill, 1995, p. 8). This brings us to the question of ‘history or not-history’ as one author has put it (Wallace-Hadrill, 1995, p. 8). When discussing personalities so intricately involved with the history of their period, the line between the two forms blur, so that ‘the nature of the early principate was such that even historians found it difficult to avoid writing a series of imperial biographies’ (Wallace-Hadrill, 1995, p. 9). What distinguishes biography from history? While there is much fluidity between the two, the former places less emphasis on the broad analysis of a period, in favour of a detailed character study of a particular subject. The Greeks and Romans made, and were aware of, such a distinction, and so we should also note it when discussing biography. It is much easier to write a history of the first century A.D. than it is to examine the character of its emperors. A major problem for the modern biographer is that of sources, both in their availability and in their subjectivity. For all the emperors of the first century A.D. we need to cross-reference all available sources to gain any sort of accurate picture. As well as reading Tacitus, Suetonius, Dio and Paterculus, we need to make the best possible use of other extant sources, including inscriptions, artwork and archaeological evidence. Most of the early principate is well documented by classical standards, but by the standards of modern biography we cannot be satisfied with it. That is to say nothing of the objectivity of our information. Was the real Tiberius closer to the sullen and depraved character in Tacitus and Suetonius, or the brilliant general and administrator of Velleius? This is where biography demands something more than history in terms of sources; while it maybe (relatively) easy to build up a picture of an Emperor’s main deeds and achievements, how are we to judge the character of Tiberius? Was Caligula’s madness exaggerated by hostile writers? Is the view of Domitian as tyrannical and despotic entirely accurate? We can only do the best with what we have. We can certainly judge on historical actions and decisions, anecdotes (if reliable?) are all important. As Plutarch says when dealing with Alexander; “We are writing biographies, not histories…A battle with a thousand dead may tell us less of a man’s character than a brief anecdote” (Alexander 1.2). While remaining severely sceptical about the objectivity of our sources, we cannot forsake them altogether. However biased or subjective, there are no doubt elements of truth in the portraits we find in Tacitus and Suetonius, and these accounts are essential 88


Classics in forming opinions, however tentative. Thus this essay will critically examine their works as authoritative sources. In order to judge the success of modern biography on the early Emperors, I want to take two examples; Pat Southern’s study on Augustus, and that of B.W. Jones on Domitian. Both preface their respective works by stating explicitly that their aim is biography, and both subjects pose different problems. There is plenty of source material for Augustus, including his own Res Gestae, but Augustus the man was shrouded behind the slick propaganda of Augustus, Pater Patriae, and so ‘despite his talent for self-advertisement, his character is only rarely revealed’ (Southern, 1998, p. 3). Domitian on the other hand poses a different set of challenges. The monochromatic view of him as a bloodthirsty tyrant can no longer be accepted as completely authoritative, while Jones notes that ‘the bias of literary sources and the judgemental standards adopted by the aristocracy’ are also significant roadblocks ( Jones, 1992, p. vii). The scope of this essay does not allow for a detailed discussion of both works, but they are accessible and informative without sacrificing any scholastic integrity. However the question is, although they assess the character of their subjects, how accurate are, and can, those assessments be? A reliable narrative of Augustus’ life is not the problem, but where can see his personality emerging? It is, of course, possible to extract a portrait from his decisions and actions. There is the Octavian the triumvir who proscribed thousands and ruthlessly fought his way to the sole dominance he gained after Actium. There is also the shrewd P.R. genius who ostensibly ‘restored the Republic’ and refused the title of King, as well as the venerable patriarch of later years. But anecdotal evidence should not be discounted, if anything such evidence can provide a deeper insight, another layer to explore. If we are to believe Suetonius, we can picture an exasperated figure, dismayed at an army stretched too thin after the Varian disaster of A.D. 9: “Quintili Vare, legiones redde!” (Aug 23.2). The succession too, was evidently a thorn in his side. He seems to have awkwardly mismanaged the situation between Marcellus and Agrippa during his life-threatening illness of 23 B.C., while Tiberius’ self imposed exile in Rhodes leaves us wondering how he handled that relationship. Augustus’ own account does not much help, “…intentions and hopes which came to nothing are absent and very few of his thoughts or ideas are on record” (Southern, 1998, p. 139). No matter how good the scholarship however, the unfortunate truth is that, at best, we are left with an incomplete portrait. If we accept the image of Tacitus and Suetonius, Domitian does not fare well. A lax and spoiled emperor’s son is but one negative reference 89


Classics in Tacitus, while in Suetonius we find a whole host of scandalous anecdotes quoted without reference, not least that Domitian was ‘debauched’ by Nerva, his successor, while the final judgement is of “an object of terror and hatred to all” (Dom 8.2). Most interesting among these is a reference to his treatise “On the Care of Hair”: he was apparently insecure about his early baldness. It is nuggets like this that complement our historical knowledge and allow us to shade in our rough sketch of the man. There is, of course, more to Domitian. He was an efficient ruler, a fan of literature, and popular with the troops. In summing up his personality B.W. Jones filters the various sources to offer a comprehensive view of the emperor. He correctly points out the apparent contradictions in our evidence; “Domitian…remains an enigma […] the lazy emperor of Dom. 19 can hardly have been the same person who kept so close an eye on the minutiae of administration, who even checked the accuracy of coins” ( Jones, 1992, p. 198). Indeed Jones’ conclusion offers us what is perhaps the most accurate portrait of Domitian we can attain; a judgement backed up, and legitimised by, intensive study of the man, the sources, and the time. The problem of resolving such contradictions and inconsistencies into a viable study is one the biographer’s main tasks. Finally before concluding, I would like to look briefly at Tiberius as a third example for imperial biography. While our main sources tend to be set against Tiberius, we have a fascinating alternative viewpoint. Velleius Paterculus was a contemporary of Tiberius and served under his military command. He later produced a brief two book History of Rome, including what can only be described as an almost completely superlative judgement of his former commander (Historiae Romanae, 2.129-130). This image is a far cry from the ever unfavourable comparison with Germanicus in Tacitus, or from the vice hungry Tiberius on Capri. Indeed Robin Seager succinctly sums up the severe shortcomings of Suetonius’ portrait: “His Tiberius is never even a cardboard figure: under Augustus he is simply a name, while as princeps he is a label attached to a list of vices. No attempt is ever made to probe his motives of explain his actions” ( Seager, 205, p. 238). If one of our chief sources is so lacking, what hope do we have of an accurate biography? In case of Augustus’ successor, while we can gain many small insights into his character, we really cannot approach anything like a satisfactory judgement of his personality. What we lack in most cases in a substantial body of private, personal source material. The letters of Cicero, most never intended for publication, provide us with a deeply personal testament to that particular personality which we lack for the early emperors. Such a body of extant letters would give us a much deeper insight into Tiberius or Domitian, but unfortunately 90


Classics this is wishful thinking. Therefore I would argue the success of biographies of the early emperors depends on each individual case. Good biography in any age, on any subject, is not easy to define or to classify. Biography should be many things: historical (in the modern sense of the word), sympathetic, perceptive. As the initial remark by Tom Stoppard highlights, one has to wonder how effective a form it can be, particularly in relation to the early emperors. Problems when dealing with a classical subject revolve around the source material, and sorting through conflicting opinions to reach a small bit of the truth behind a character. While similar to history in many respects, the focus of biography must always revert back to the subject, and so as the standard criteria for a successful biography of a Roman emperor, I want to take the question “What kind of man was he?” The extent to which this question is answered satisfactorily points us to how successful an individual biography is. However much biography of ancient subjects merely seems to use the term as a way in, as a convenient niche for what is essentially history. It is possible to write a modern study of a firstcentury A.D. Roman emperor to a very high standard, as the examples of Pat Southern and B.W. Jones demonstrate. I remain sceptical as to how much we can really know about the men behind the imperial façade, to what extent we can answer the question “what kind of men were they?” Perhaps, though, that is a hard task in any age, and with any subject. Maybe in this case the task for the biographer, as it so often is with Classics, is simply to make the best of what we have.

91


Classics Bibliography Jones, B.W., The Emperor Domitian, (London 1992) Momigliano, A., The Development of Greek Biography, (Harvard 1971) Russell, D.A., Plutarch, (London 1971) Seager, R., Tiberius, (London 1995) Southern, P., Augustus, (London 1998) Wallace-Hadrill, A., Suetonius, (London 1995)

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Archaeology

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The Intentional Distruction of Cultural Heritage: A Look at the Case of Afghanistan Yasmin Hamed

Senior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology and French The destruction of cultural heritage has the striking ability to evoke the personal side of the archaeological world. Apart from the historical setting, the destruction of antiquities is embedded in such areas as patriotism, personal and national ancestry and above all, past and present politics. Whether it is through the physical act of destroying antiquities, or by their illegal removal and trade, we can see a repetition of destruction throughout the world for many different reasons. This paper will examine the intentional destruction of cultural heritage using the case study of the destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas in Afghanistan in 2001. This will present us with a view of cultural destruction during a period of modern armed conflict. To begin with, it is important to look at the historical setting for the context of the destruction of the Bamiyan Buddha’s in Afghanistan. As early as the 5th and 6th century, iconoclasm had been initiated throughout Afghanistan. During this time an earlier monastic settlement had been destroyed at the same site in Bamiyan by the then ruler Mihirkula to deny power to faiths other than Islam (Flood 2002, p.648). Since the 1970’s, a civil war in Afghanistan has facilitated the outbreak of warring factions, the most popular being the Taliban group known as ‘The Seekers’. This group maintained control over most of the country and aimed for an Islamic revolution with the re-establishment of Sharia law. However the new Taliban state remained unrecognised by the U.N. and other foreign bodies (Hoffman 2006, p.29). During the climate of worldwide terrorism at the end of the 90’s and the beginning of the 21st century, Afghanistan had a number of run-ins with the international community. Afghanistan not only supported but hosted some extremist leaders but also refused to comply with any extradition 94


Archaeology charges and maintained a number of extremist training camps throughout the country. As a reprisal the United Nations Security Council imposed a number of economic sanctions. The first of these sanctions was implemented in 1999 for this involvement by Afghanistan in terrorist activity (Hoffman 2006, p.30). It is evident at this point that there was a situation of very high tensions between Afghanistan and the international community. On a more localised level, the civil war ensured the rising of tensions within Afghanistan that lead to the destruction of the Buddha’s. The civil war ravaged the country and by 2001 Afghanistan had the world’s lowest life expectancy. During the war period, Afghanistan had lost one third of its population, 5 million people had to flee as refugees (Hoffman 2006, p.29). The new regime under Sharia law brought with it a certain level of religious intolerance. The death penalty was given to anyone who converted from Islam to other faiths at this time. As early as 1997, threats to the Buddha’s had been highlighted at the World Heritage Committee. With the culmination of both outer and inner pressure put on the Afghan state, the need to demonstrate the authority of the Taliban government was immense and this was one of the main factors which led to the destruction of the Buddhas. Let us now look at the actual situation of the destruction of these Buddhas in relation to the intensifying situation in Afghanistan at this time. In 2001 the supreme leader of the Taliban government in Afghanistan, Mullah Mohammed Omar, issued an Edict forbidding all representations with shadows that depicted a cultural icon which was contrary to Islamic belief. After the announcement of this edict he was quoted in saying – “In view of the fatwa [religious edict] of prominent Afghan scholars and the verdict of the Afghan Supreme Court it has been decided to break down all statues/idols present in different parts of the country. This is because these idols have been gods of the infidels, who worshiped them, and these are respected even now and perhaps maybe turned into gods again. The real God is only Allah, and all other false gods should be removed.” (www.archaeology. org/online/news/Afganistan/taliban.html 31/03/10) There was no military objective but the wish to destroy manifestations of cultures that did not coincide with the new political regime. As part of the heritage of the Afghan nation, the Bamiyan Buddhas belonged to the pre-Islamic past and they were denoted as ‘Gods of the Infidels’. They were consequently ordered to be destroyed under the new edict. On the 2nd of March 2001 the destruction of these monuments began. The two statues were 53 metres and 36 metres in height respectively and were each loaded with dynamite inside crevices in the sculptures and the surrounding mountainside (Hoffman 2006, 95


Archaeology p.32). They were also shot at with different artillery to weaken the structures before the dynamite was set off (Fig.1). “The work began early during the day. All of the statues are to be smashed. This also covers the idols in Bamiyan.” “The implementation of Mullah Omar’s order to destroy statues began this morning [March 1]. The destruction work began in Kabul, Jalalabad, Herat, Kandahar, Ghazni, and Bamiyan. The destruction work will be done by any means available to them. All the statues all over the country will be destroyed.” (www.archaeology.org/online/ Afganistan/taliban.html 31/03/10) There had also been evidence from the Online Centre of Afghan Studies that the Buddha’s were not the only items destroyed immediately after this Edict. Sledgehammers were brought into the national museum of Kabul one month later and thousands of artefacts were damaged or completely destroyed. Faces on figural sculpture were destroyed mostly in Kabul and one incident reported the slapping of the face of a Bodhisattva sculpture in the Kabul museum (Flood 2002, p.651). After the destruction of the Buddha’s, there was an expected public outcry from the international community. The incident was named as something which had affected the international community as a whole as the statues were to be considered part of the heritage of humankind and not just of Afghanistan nor the Buddhist faith. The act was condemned as a violation of human rights in two facets; the first being the right of preservation of one’s own culture and the second being the right to practice and obtain respect for one’s own religion. Immediately after the destruction of the Buddha’s, there were record protests outside the United Nations headquarters in Delhi and a threat emitted for the destruction of all Indian mosques by way of reprisal (Flood 2002, p.651). As regards any form of legal reprisal for the acts, the international community’s hands seemed to be tied. First and foremost, the destruction of the Buddhas was without a doubt a breach of international law. As a member of the World Heritage Committee, Afghanistan signed the treaty in 1972. In view of this, the country was obligated to protect any cultural heritage within the state even if it was not represented on the World Heritage List. The Hague Conventions had also stated avoidance of cultural heritage in the case of armed conflict (Hoffman 2006, p.33). However both of these sanctions were unenforceable and the Taliban government was not convicted of an international crime. The feeling of powerlessness in the face of these events have been depicted by Christian Manhart, head of the Asian Division in the Cultural Heritage Department by saying – 96


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Fig. 1: The Bamiayn Buddha

“We cannot do a lot because we do not have international police forces to intervene. UNESCO considers this to be a crisis. We are scandalised, but there is always hope.” (www.acrchaeology.org/online/news/Afganistan/international.html 31/03/10) The nature of the destruction of the Buddha’s came into question after the incident. If one looks at the original reasoning behind the destruction according to the Taliban i.e. the destruction of the ‘gods of the infidels’ ideal, it is wholly undermined by the fact that there was a very small demographic of practicing Buddhists left in Afghanistan after the Taliban had come to power (Flood 2002, p.651). In this case the Taliban’s concern over the continuing worship of these figures throughout Afghanistan seems unfounded. In the internet age during which the destruction took place, it had been noted that the destruction was designed as a worldwide performance and not for extension of the local Sharia law. With the complete video documentation and announcement of the destruction of the Buddha’s to the international community, many political institutions had commented that it was purely done as a self-assertion of Taliban power. A striking example of the relevance of this is the pleading of the UNESCO director general Ambassador Matsuura who went to Afghanistan with a special envoy before the destruction (Hoffman 2006, p.28). In this case we see how the new regime, 97


Archaeology once at the economic mercy of the United Nations now very much so had the upper hand. “As soon as we heard about Mullah Omar’s order, we launched an appeal to the Taliban. We sent this appeal to the international press…This morning we issued a second appeal to the Taliban, along with a message from our Director General.” (www.archaeology.org/online/news/Afganistan/UN.html 31/03/10) There has been one stark positive outcome of the events in Bamiyan in 2001. As a reaction to the events, the ‘Declaration Concerning the Intentional Destruction of Cultural Heritage’ was announced at the UNESCO general conference on October 17th 2003 (Hoffman 2006, p.37). As we have seen, in this case the intentional destruction of the preIslamic cultural heritage in Afghanistan was evoked as a tragedy on an international scale. At the root of the issue, the assumption based on the words of the Taliban lead us to view this incident as the assertion of power during a time of armed conflict. However, we cannot deny the role that international relationships and political connections had to play in the destruction of the Buddhas. As has been clearly demonstrated by the example of Afghanistan, cultural heritage is not always a bystander but at times intentionally destroyed. In this case study the aggressors are using the destruction to establish an identity in a recently changed political entity. The emerging political identity is the Taliban government. This event shows that in order to express this new identity, the aim of destruction was to disassociate themselves with a previously different identity be it ethnic, cultural or religious. In Afghanistan the setting was a current armed conflict and the destruction of the Buddhas cannot be said to have proven to be profitable, but if anything surely the opposite. The destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas was largely visible act broadcasted to the world. This event received airtime and was without a doubt meant for a large audience as the evidence has shown. We can conclude therefore that their destruction was used as a symbolic gesture to Taliban power and rising authoritative identity in a country with a new political regime. One cannot help noticing that the intentional destruction of cultural heritage becomes an international issue. Although the ideals behind the destruction were specific to the two nations in which they occurred, the views of the international community become part of the debate at times. As a result of these acts the perpetrators have been accused of international crimes against antiquities by institutions such as UNESCO, the European Union and The Hague as well as foreign governments. 98


Archaeology Similarly it is evident that the destruction of cultural heritage has had a knock-on effect on their political standing. Although there is only a very small demographic of Buddhists in Afghanistan, the destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas has severely damaged an already strained relationship with other states. This can only be added to the list of difficulties between Taliban governments and western countries in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks at the beginning of the decade. Afghanistan’s international relationships only worsened from this point on as it harboured Osama Bin Laden and again refused any extradition charges. Lastly an issue which seems to have arisen in this case study is the ability of international organisations to prosecute states or individuals who break international laws regarding antiquities. One can easily speculate as to why there is a need to sign treaties if they will remain unenforceable. Consequently, we need to ask how we could possibly enforce such laws and regulations. Upon initial readings of such case studies, although the name and importance of such a prolific organisation as UNESCO is commonly recognised, the author believes it is difficult to see various actions which have been taken that could actively prevented these cases of destruction. Although more action from UNESCO was desirable, during the period when the destruction occurred there was a larger risk to human life. Therefore, at this time the protection of cultural heritage was not viewed to the same extent as it is now where the denoument of the war in Afghanistan takes on different aspects. In conclusion, this research paper has presented a case study where the intentional destruction of culture heritage has taken place. We can draw a number of conclusions from the evidence that can be inferred from the intentional destruction of cultural heritage in Afghanistan. Firstly that archaeology has become both a positive and negative tool for the expression of identity. Secondly, archaeology remains constantly embroiled in political life. As a domain without a voice of its own, artefacts are used and abused to solidify political views or positions. Lastly perhaps we need to question in future the legitimacy of UNESCO and other such authoritative bodies with regard to the maintenance of international laws regarding antiquities. Without a doubt, the destruction of cultural heritage remains a controversial topic as it is one of the few areas of archaeology that evokes the humanistic quality to the search of history.

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Archaeology Bibliography N. Brodie, J. Doole, C. Renfrew (eds), ‘Trade in Illicit Antiquities: The Destructions of the World’s Archaeological Heritage’, 2001, Cambridge N. Brodie, K.W. Tubb (eds) ‘Illicit Antiquities: The Theft of Culture and the Extinction of Archaeology’, 2002, London F. B. Flood, ‘Between Cult and Culture; Bamiyan, Islamic Iconoclasm and the Museum.’ The Art Bulletin, Vol. 84, No. 4, 2002 D. Gill, ‘http://lootingmatters.blogspot.com’, accessed 23/03/10-25/03/10 B. Hoffman, ‘Art and Cultural Heritage; Law, policy and practice’, 2006, Cambridge C. Renfrew, P. Bahn, ‘ Archaeology: Theories, Methods and Practice’, 4th Ed, 2004, London K.D. Vitelli (ed), ‘Archaeological Ethics’, 2006, Oxford www.archaeology.org/online/news/Afghanistan/UN.html, accessed 31/03/10 www.archaeology.org/online/news/Afghanistan/taliban.html, accessed 31/03/10 www.archaeology.org/online/news/Afghanistan/international.html, accessed 31/03/10

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An Introduction to Mortaria and Their Cultural Significance and Implications in Roman Britain Jennifer Sutton

Junior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology and Theology Mortaria are a type of Roman pottery that began to be used in Britain before the Roman invasion and conquest in A.D.43, although Bédoyére (Bédoyére 2000, p.9) does inform us that they were barely known before this time and became common after it. They are a distinct-looking vessel shaped like a bowl and possessing a vertical rim. ‘They often have a spout formed in the rim, and grit embedded in the inner surface.’(Tyers 1996, p.116) Mortaria are, allegedly, more useful to study than other types of Roman courseware. Evidence for this exists through the recent study of the distribution of north Gaulish mortaria in Britain and northern France. The Journal of Roman Pottery Studies tells us that this is hugely due to ‘the refined characterisation achieved typologically and chronologically through their stamps, and petrologically through trituration grits, both of which have ramifications on source.’ (Harley, Tomber, Webster 2007, p.1) The stamps on mortaria mean that they are highly useful to the archaeologist. As well as providing the potter’s name and oftentimes further information such as where they are from, they may also be used to trace the career of the potter or the history of the kiln they were working at. We can also find out the areas of distribution of the mortaria. The stamping of mortaria appears to have been particularly popular in Britain. Stamped pottery also allows us to date the material more closely than would be possible with unstamped vessels. Mortaria were a kitchen necessity across the Roman world as they were needed in the preparation of food typical to the Roman ‘’diet’’. The surface of the bowl had to be granular to allow for the grinding of food. The fabric and size of the mortarium depended on the type of food being processed as I will explain further on in the Influence of Roman Cuisine. Stones 101


Archaeology such as flint and quartz were added to make the interior texture of the vessel gritty. The hooked flange rim and spout of the vessel were needed to pour out food after it was processed. There is a typological series for the rims which helps with the dating of the vessels for example earlier imports into Britain have wall-sided rims. This evolved until it gave way to the hammer-headed rim. Tyers tells us that mortaria are usually white or cream in colour but can sometimes be orange or buff. It is important to take a look at the British Iron Age before studying the Romano-British period because mortaria were present in Britain at this time, although they were not produced there. They were imported from Belgium and north-east Gaul. Some of these potters opened branches in Britain where demand for mortaria and other vessels, such as flagons, was growing steadily. We know this through the stamping on their vessels. After this, local industries began to grow and thus imports from places like Belgium consequently depleted. Thus mortaria provide a good area within which to study aspects of cultural development in Roman Britain. They are also helpful in sourcing other types of ware, for example reeded-rim bowls, because they were made alongside these in the first and second centuries. Because they are more useful and easier to date than other types of pottery, I have decided to focus wholly on mortaria rather than other types which also contributed to the development of Romano-British culture. In this paper I aim to discuss and evaluate the use of mortaria and their cultural significance. I will evaluate their cultural impact through study of a number of different topics such as food preparation and the influence of Roman cuisine. I. Food Preparation Mortaria found in Britain dating to before the Roman conquest lead us to conclude that certain British people at the time enjoyed elements of Roman cuisine in their lives. They obviously had knowledge of Roman foodstuffs and dishes and the presence of mortaria, a distinctively Roman utensil, indicates that they prepared and probably cooked Roman dishes. To put it in modern perspective, the equivalent of mortaria today would probably be a pestle and mortar often used to grind or purĂŠe food. In fact the word mortar is derived from the classical Latin word ‘mortarium.’ As with the mortar, the mortarium is well made and strong to serve as a mixing bowl for food that is often quite difficult to grind. Further proof that they were used as mixing and grinding bowls is the evidence for wear and tear on the inside surfaces of the majority of mortarium found. 102


Archaeology From this beginning mortaria began to develop and become more important for food preparation in Roman Britain. The huge role mortaria played in the preparation of food is evident through the large numbers of them found at Roman sites in excavations across Britain. It is very common to find mortaria and Wacher says that one of the reasons for this may be that ‘most vegetables would have been both tougher and stringier than modern day varieties, and a preliminary pulping or crushing to break down the coarser fibres would have made them more tender.’(Wacher 1978, p.143) From a cultural point of view, mortaria began as a sophisticated method of food preparation but as they grew in popularity and necessity, they became an essential part of any Roman British kitchen. They would even have been regarded as ‘ordinary kitchenware.’ II. Economic Effects The knowledge of the economics of Roman Britain that may be gained through the study of mortaria is one of the most beneficial aspects of their study. Hartley (Hartley 1972, p.39) tells us that, through mortaria, it is possible to deduce the relative economic importance of different potteries, the development or shrinkage of markets and the way in which one pottery takes over trade previously enjoyed by another. Mortaria were traded the length and breadth of Britain even stretching to southern parts of Scotland. Surely this benefited the economy of Roman Britain greatly? There is evidence for distribution to Scotland through the Verulamium-region mortaria which had kilns at St. Albans and Brockley Hill. Tyers (Tyres 1996, p.117) says that many years of detailed study of Romano-British mortaria means that we now know the major centres of production, their typology, chronology and distribution. This helps us to understand how and why they traded far and wide. We also know that this type of pottery was worth more than other types, Salway refers to them as one of the more expensive types of pottery (Salway 1993, p.455). This may well be one of the reasons for their widespread trade. Although fortunes were not always made in the pottery industry, some larger productions centres such as that at Colchester, made almost the majority of mortaria for southern Britain and some has even been found in the very north of Britain. Therefore in certain areas of Roman Britain the economy, as a result, benefited greatly. This indicates that pottery demand and trade was booming in these areas and much of the population were able to afford these Roman kitchen utensils. Towards the mid second century Oxfordshire kilns began to outshine those around the Colchester and they became the largest producers of mortaria in southern Britain. Trade 103


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went from south to north as the army were based in the highlands and did not have enough kilns there to meet their growing needs. Hartley makes the point that it is possible that military contracts played a part in the trade. There is evidence from the Berlin Papyrus that the authorities issued contracts to manufacturers for supplies. Stamp marks also allow us to follow the distribution and trade of mortaria because they provide the potter’s name and oftentimes their source may be recognised through their stamp. Tyers says that we can compare stamp marks, dies and fabrics to see potters that moved workshops. In some cases there will also be a stamp on the rim providing the name of the workshop where the vessel was made. Name-stamping was prominent from c.A.D.50 to A.D.200. Distribution was most common in the areas of Londinium and Verulamium. Certain areas were also ideal for trade and allowed for wide distribution, for example, Lincoln had the Car Dyke which united a number of important river systems. ‘This system of waterways was probably also responsible for the fact that stamped mortaria, manufactured at Lincoln, are found as far north as Newstead and the Antonine Wall.’(Wacher 1975, p.136) It is interesting to note the number of mortaria attributed to kilns in and around the Lincoln area especially in the early second century. This indicates the importance of these workshops for this north-western direction. Harley and Tomber (Harley, Tomber, Webster 2007, p.15) make the excellent observation that mortaria were often traded much further than other courseware made in the same workshops though difficulties in identifications may conceal the distribution of some non-mortarium pottery types. At the same time, other potters often aided the local economy through production for the nearest local markets such as the one at Aldborough in Yorkshire. Mortaria were first imported into Britain from the Rhineland in Germany and Gaul. Both the Eifel region in the lower Rhineland and the Aoste region in central Gaul produced mortaria that was exported throughout the first century. Starting out it is likely they were imported from the Rhineland by the British army where they were originally based. It is of benefit to archaeologists to trace the origins of mortaria imports in the first century. Astonishingly stamped vessels found provide evidence for production in Italian brickyards in Campania dating to A.D. 39. This information is useful because we can identify the yard they were produced in and then look into the history of that particular and how it ran. It is possible that these reached Britain from Campania through trade in the Rhineland or the main non-Italian market in the south of Gaul. By the second century A.D. 104


Archaeology imports had become uncommon in Britian and they were producing most of their mortaria and pottery themselves. The only other important potter that exported to Britain was a man called Verecundus from Lower Germany. Unstamped pieces and nine of his stamps were found in Britain. ‘His mortaria are quite extraordinarily large and may have had a specialized purpose, perhaps in bakeries. Moreover, Verecundus was selling to Britain at a time when importation of coarse ware from the Continent was exceptional.’(Hartley 1972, p.41) Mortaria and other types of pottery benefited the local economy greatly. Many kilns were located in an area close to a town and other small settlements around it. They would produce for the local area and trade at the forum in the centre of the town as well as the shops. Kilns excavated near St. Albans were within close walking distance of the town centre. III. Influence of Roman Cuisine Mortaria, in themselves, indicate a huge cultural change and development in Britain even before the Romans arrived. They show that Roman culture was having an impact on places outside the Roman Empire. In Britain, this presented itself through the adoption of Roman cooking and drinking habits. Jugs, cooking pots, mortaria and other kitchen vessels began use in Britain. As the Roman Empire expanded mortaria became synonymous with the aforementioned ‘Roman diet.’ As was mentioned earlier on in the introduction, the fabric and size of the mortarium depended on the type of food being processed. Different types were used depending on the particular food being prepared, for example, larger ones may have been used in the making of bread and smaller ones may have been left on the table for use in the grinding of material particular to the meal being eaten. It is interesting to note that ‘as a specifically Roman product used for grinding food, the mortarium marks a change in culinary habits as well as a taste for Roman goods in general.’(Bédoyére 2000, p.42) Further proof of this is that mortaria fell into disuse after the Roman period ended in Britain. Initially it is thought that mortaria were produced in Britain to supply the army masses who saw them as an essential piece of equipment. These soldiers, therefore, were responsible for introducing many Roman dishes and cooking methods to Britain and their diet soon began to have an impact and influence on the diet of the civilians. Subsequently both parties were in continuous need of mortaria and other vessels which were to become a necessity to the Roman British kitchen. The fragility of the pottery meant it broke on a regular basis and replacements were continually in high demand. The growth 105


Archaeology of towns also led to a growth in the popularity of Roman ways of life, and food comprised a large part of this. Eating and cooking in the Roman way became commonplace and it was not just the wealthy who enjoyed the use of vessels such as mortaria. This spread in popularity of mortaria meant that both army and civilian potters began production from the very early days of Roman Britain and thus imports of mortaria began to decline significantly from A.D. 65. The required vessels all became part of Roman cuisine and many signatory Roman dishes could not be made without the assistance of a mortarium. “The men who made these popular grinding bowls were household names and stamped their wares with ‘signatures’ so that customers knew they were buying the genuine article.’’(Branigan 1980, p.238) As with any invasion by a foreign imperial power, given time, the people both adopted and adapted to the Roman way of life and very much came under the influence of most aspects of ‘Roman life’, with food and drink being one of the biggest areas affected. IV. Craft Development The specialised industry of making mortaria came into existence thereby contributing to the beginning and enrichment of Romano-British culture. Kilns had to be built and apprentices had to be trained in the art of mortaria making. Many of these craftsmen or potters were immigrants from other provinces in the Empire such as Gaul. The trade would have then been picked up by native craftsmen who may have already been producing pottery and learned the art of making mortaria. Mortaria have received a considerably small amount of archaeological attention considering they are of great importance. At the site of Birdoswald, a Roman fort on Hadrian’s Wall, they made up for almost 10% (or 522 shards) of all pottery found (Wilmott 1997, p.233). Many industries developed producing different types of fine wares. The demise of Samian ware began in late Roman Britain and other wares such as Oxfordshire red- and brown- slipped ware became most dominant in southern Britain. This developed from ‘an established industry producing kitchenware and mortaria.’(Bédoyére 2000, p.35) Certain regions of Roman Britain dominated the mortaria-making industry such as the Verulamium Region where development of the craft took place. Many kilns were located in the Lowland Zone where large amounts of the best potting clays were present. The development of the craft was further aided by the addition of Roman infrastructure to Britain. Construction of Roman roads meant 106


Archaeology that mortaria and other types of pottery could be transported efficiently across much of Roman Britain. For example, ‘Brockley Hill reflects the importance of access to communications, because it was on a major Roman road.’(Bédoyére 2000, p.42) Without a doubt the development of the craft would have been much slower and less widespread had it not been for the in-genius Roman transport system, although we would certainly regard it as primitive by today’s standards. Having said this it is likely that much more pottery transport was done by water rather than roads, the breakage rate would have been significantly lower travelling by boat. It was also cheaper to transport goods by boat. Despite the lower costs of water transport, in some areas of Roman Britain, such as Hartshill-Mancetter, potters did use the excellent road system available to them. It is interesting, from a cultural point of view, to note how many potters stamped their names into their mortaria, for example, a complete stamp with the name ‘SARVS’, engraved on it was found on a mortarium vessel in Doncaster’s Civil settlement (Hartley 1986, p.143). These stamps, especially the earlier ones show us that many early potters that manufactured mortaria were of Roman citizenship and excelled in their trade, for example the name Gaius Attius Marinus indicates that he was a Roman citizen and therefore he was a man of importance and status in the ancient world. We know this because his name has shown up on mortaria discovered at Brockley Hill, Hartshill-Mancetter, Colchester and Radlett. It appears that he worked at all these places in and around the same period of time and Bédoyére (Bédoyére 2000, p.43) tells us ‘his name could have carried enough prestige as a manufacturer for him to subcontract work to lesser potters.’ Indeed it may also have been location that ensured Marinus’ success as a potter, his production centre at Hartshill-Mancetter was in an excellent location to supply the surrounding military market such as Chester and York. Mortaria continued to be produced here well into the fourth century when other industries had gone into decline by the end of the second century. Centres of production also developed further north in areas such as Doncaster to cater for the urban markets. There are suggestions that some mortaria were made as decorative pieces for example the Gaulish vessels which had the spout of a lion’s head and a wall-sided rim (also known as the Form 45 mortaria). These appear to be impractical and indicate the growing demand and popularity of mortaria in the Romano-British market. However it was uncommon for potters to produce this type of decorative vessel. As well as the unusual production of these pieces some potters liked to design a more unique type of stamp to put on their vessels, for example herring-bone stamps were unique to Colchester 107


Archaeology these pieces some potters liked to design a more unique type of stamp to put on their vessels, for example herring-bone stamps were unique to Colchester mortaria. Important manufacturers of mortaria such as those at HartshillMancetter and the New Forest region did not just face competition from each other, they also had to compete with imports from foreign regions such as the Rhone Valley in Gaul and the Eifel-Rhine area of Germany. InterBritish competition also existed. This can be seen, Branigan (Branigan 1980, p.239) tells us, through the example of the two second century potters, Albinus and Castus, his local rival in the Brockley Hill area. Between A.D.90 and A.D.100 Albinus sold more mortaria than any other potter. On discovery of Castus’ kiln, there were stacks of partly fired pots and also ones with his name on them. In the third and fourth centuries, potters began to stop stamping mortaria. This development to the production of the craft meant that mortaria from this time are harder to date and we usually do not know who manufactured them. The cause of this change, which is somewhat tiresome to archaeologists, may well be due to a change in marketing. Potters may have begun producing goods in bulk. A possible further cause is that by the mid second century a number of mortaria appear to have been manufactured by potters of a low literacy level. This is indicated by the poor state of their name-stamps. Mortaria were of the utmost cultural importance in Roman Britain. This is indicated by the fact that by A.D.100 Britain was completely self-sufficient in mortaria production. During this period, ‘pottery manufacture became the fastest-growing industry in Roman Britain, and the biggest industrial employer.’(Branigan 1980, p.238) This overwhelming fact alone displays the important role mortaria played in the life of the Roman-Briton. Both the local and national markets and economies benefited greatly from their production. However it is important to remember that as well as producing mortaria, these industries were also producing other types of courseware at the same time. Many other types were also key parts of Roman life but because mortaria are more easily datable and we can find out a good degree more information from their study than other types, they are an excellent subject to focus on.

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Archaeology Bibliography Guy de la Bédoyére, 2000, Pottery in Roman Britain, Buckinghamshire. K. Branigan, 1980, Roman Britain: Life in an Imperial province, London. P. A. Clayton (ed.), 1980, A Companion to Roman Britain, Oxford. K.F. Harley and R. Tomber with P.V. Webster, 2007, Journal of Roman Pottery Studies 13: A Mortarium Bibliography for Roman Britain, Oxford P. Salway, 1993, The Oxford Illustrated History of Roman Britain, Oxford. Paul Tyers, 1996, Pottery in Roman Britain, London. John Wacher, 1975, The Towns of Roman Britain, London. Tony Wilmott, 1997, Birdoswald: Excavations of a Roman fort on Hadrian’s Wall and its successor settlements: 1987-92, London. S.E. Winbold and G. Herbert, 1967, The Roman Villa at Bignor, Sussex.

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An Artefact Study: The Knossos Throne Room Complex Emma Devereaux

Senior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology and Russian I. Description The Minoan palace of Knossos covers roughly 20,000 square metres. It consists of the foundations of at least 300 rooms on the ground floor, with upper floors also once existing. It may well have comprised of over a thousand rooms in antiquity. There were other palaces on Crete- Zakro, Mallia and Phaistos for example, but this was the largest, and was to be remembered in succeeding generations as the Labyrinth. The “Throne Room” is situated in northern part of the west wing of the palace of Knossos. It consists of a suite of three connecting rooms (Niemeier 1987, p.163). The group comprises an anteroom, with a fourdoor polythyron opening onto the palace courtyard, facing the hill of Prophitis Elis (Goodison 2001, p.81) On the west side of the room a two-door polythyron leads to the “throne room”.(Goodison 2001, p.81) The “throne”, made of stone, is located on the north wall. On the south wall, opposite the seat, are steps leading to a sunken room known as the “lustral basin“, which is separated only by a balustrade, with a light well providing illumination from above. It is sunken below ground level. To the west of the throne area and accessible only from there, is a series of rooms, probably used for the preparation of rituals in the main area. Other rooms in this so-called service area are: the “Room of the Stone Drum”, which is north of the inner sanctuary, and the “Room of the Plaster Table” . II. Internal Features The Anteroom: (fig.1) As previously stated, the anteroom consists of four pier and door partitions, or polythyron. These are T-shaped blocks, which divide the opening onto the courtyard into four parts, between which doors were hung. These could be opened or closed in any arrangement. The light which flows through these is the only illumination provided for the throne room. On the north wall is a wooden seat, which is a reconstruction by Arthur Evans based 110


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Fig. 1: The Anteroom

Fig. 2: The Throne Room

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Archaeology on his findings at the time of the excavation (Goodison 2001, p.81). Also present are benches, and a basin placed on the elaborately designed floor, which perhaps served to guide people into the room, in the same way the corridors of the palace lead you on a procession to the centre. The Throne Room: (fig.2) The stone seat known as the throne is located on the north wall of this room. Stone benches line the north, south and west walls. It is possible that wooden structures existed here before stone. The shape of the throne’s back has caused debate and has been associated with peak sanctuaries. The wavy structure of the seat is reminiscent of a rhyton found at Zakro which depicts a peak sanctuary, suggesting the transference of this sacred space to an urban backdrop (Niemeier 1987, p.167) Fresco-covered walls draw your eye around the room. Evans reconstructed these paintings and it is generally accepted that they are accurate. They represent a Minoan method of painting, featuring a colourful background with a floral motif. Griffins and palm trees flank the throne on either side as well as the doorway to the inner rooms. Variegated stone is represented running parallel with the benches on the bottom of the walls. The Minoan “throne room” was smaller than that of the Mycenaean’s (and quite different in layout), and this is Evans term for the room, but there is no evidence that this was used as a centre for a Minoan monarch of some sort. Lustral Basin: (fig.3) The lustral basin lies to the south of the throne room. This was a very impressive room. The walls leading down the steps to the basin were made of gypsum which polished to a high shine, surely making it quite reflective. Light streamed in from the well above. Benches also line this room. It was separated from the throne area by a balustrade and was supported by columns, of which the bases remain (suggesting the columns were made of organic material such as wood). Some of the columns may have been fluted, but not necessarily all, as there are marks from the carving of the flutes on only some of the bases. The Inner Rooms or Service Area: These consisted of a series of rooms leading from the throne area. The room directly adjacent to the throne room contained what Evan’s believed was an altar, which was visible from the anteroom (Niemeier 1987, p.166). 112


Archaeology The “Room of the Stone Drum”, as named by Evans, contained a central limestone cylinder which was 69 cm high, and a semi-circular gypsum slab (Niemeier 1987, p.166). This may have served as an altar. The “Room of the Plaster Table” contained a flat table of plaster in the center with a stone seat, and another plaster structure against the west wall. It has been proposed that this may have been used to prepare a sacred meal associated with the ritual (Niemeier 1987, p.166) Evans suggested that the service area was a domestic space for the women of the palace, but due to the fact that this complex of rooms was accessible only by passing through the throne room, it is likely to have a more significant, less domestic meaning. III. Dating Early dating, as proposed by Evans, place the throne room complex in the Late Minoan II period. But work by individuals such as S. Mirie has revealed that the throne room suite developed in a series of phases from the Middle Minoan II phase up to the Late Minoan IIIA period (Niemeier 1987, p.163). The first phase, dated to the Eighteenth century BC, consists of the construction of the lustral basin, the inner sanctuary and the preparation rooms. Mirie believes that the anteroom already existed by this point (Niemeier 1987, p.163). In the second phase the stone benches were added to the throne room and the anteroom, as well as the stone throne. She also proposes that the frescoes of the griffins were added at this time (Niemeier 1987, p.163). IV. Functions Debate has raged over the function of the “throne room” complex, and interesting theories have been suggested. Firstly it must be stated that there is, of course, the possibility that this suite was a centre for the leader or chieftain, as Evans suggested. But if this was indeed a throne room, why is it not illuminated properly? It is gloomy and dark- hardly regal. The throne does not face forward towards those visiting the ruler, but instead points to the side of the room, facing the lustral basin. In a throne room, I imagine that all of the emphasis is on the monarch. He or she should take a prominent position in the room. The structure of this suite suggests that the focus of attention was not on the person sitting on the throne, at least not under normal circumstances.

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Archaeology Ritual: The evidence for the complex being a ritual site is convincing. The iconography of the frescoes suggests a divine theme. There are two griffins on either side of the seat in the throne room. Being flanked by supernatural creatures suggests that you are a very important person, even a deity. Minoan goddesses have been shown in iconography as being flanked by creatures such as griffins (Niemeier 1987, p.165) (fig.4). Reusch has suggested that the cult that was associated with this complex was the cult of the epiphany (Niemeier 1987, p.165). She suggests that it is a woman who sits on the throne and represents the goddess. She also noted the griffin flanking the door to the inner sanctuary, suggesting the presence of a deity in this position too. This seems like the perfect place for the appearance of the goddess, suddenly emerging from the doorway after her preparation in the adjacent rooms. But what of the epiphany? I believe the work of the photographer Carlos Guarita, and archaeologist Lucy Goodison, make a convincing case for the cult of the epiphany. The throne room complex faces eastward, facing the hill of Prophitis Elis. Guarita noted that the sun rose over this hill and shone into the anteroom of the throne complex, and performed a series of experiments to further study this. He conducted these tests at certain times of the year: the solstices and the equinoxes. He found that at dawn the sun shone in through the polythyra, highlighting certain areas (Goodison 2001, p.81-83). At sunrise on midwinter, the light shines in through the southernmost partition, passes through the anteroom to the throne room, and actually illuminates the throne itself. The other doors may have been closed to isolate this beam, further enhancing the dramatic effect of the experience (Goodison 2001, p.83). On the dawn of the equinoxes, the sun pierces through the central doors of the partition and highlights the door to the inner sanctuarywhere the other griffin is located. During the summer solstice the sun shines in through the northernmost doorway of the anteroom and illuminates a space just above the lustral basin (Goodison 1987, p.84-85). But why are these so significant? How do they confirm the cult of the epiphany? I believe this feature was used in order to recreate or re-enact the epiphany as part of Minoan religious ritual. In midwinter, when the sun shines in through the southernmost doorway, it illuminates the stone seat of the throne room which is flanked by creatures associated with the divine. It is possible that the priestess who was acting as the goddess sat on the seat, while the other doors were closed. When the sun shone in through the door, the woman was suddenly illuminated, as if she appeared from nowhere. On 114


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Fig. 3: The Lustral Basin

Fig. 4: Frescoes

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Archaeology the equinoxes this method would have been used to highlight the goddess in the doorway of the inner sanctuary. The priestess prepared herself in the service area, perhaps performing certain rites, then at dawn she stood in the doorway and “appeared” as the light flashed upon her. In each case she is flanked by griffins, implying her divinity. When the light appears in the lustral basin, is does so just above a bench in the sunken area. A person may have sat here and was then illuminated. I think that these occurrences could not possibly be mere coincidences. The Minoans designed the complex so as to be able to celebrate this ritual many times per year. The gaps between the polythyra are uneven so as to accommodate the effect. The alignment of the throne complex with the dawn sun is a feat I find truly interesting. But the whole scene is very theatrical, and I wonder just what the impact would have been on the viewer? Benches lined the throne room, therefore there was an audience present at the ritual. Geraldine C. Gesell, in her article “The Minoan Palace and Public Cult”, gives the capacity of the throne room. According to her research, 99 people can fit, standing, into the anteroom, 76 in the throne room, and 21 in the lustral basin (Gesell 1987, p.127). Who would these people have been? Were they elite members of society? Priests or priestesses? Or would they have been the common man? The theatrical nature of this display could be seen as an attempt in early society to establish and legitimise power. This feat was magical, awe-inspiring and probably somewhat frightening to the viewer. It was as if those performing the ritual had taken control of the sun. I wonder if dramatic actions such as this were used to wield a certain amount of power and control over the people. There may also have been a more practical aspect to the effect- it may have been used as a calendar. This could have been used for agriculture, to determine when certain festivals were due to commence etc. There is no way of truly knowing the function of the room. V. Unresolved Questions Some elements still require further investigation. For example the doors of the polythyron are a reconstruction undertaken by Evans. The research of Guarita has displayed that the doors are too short. The light of the sun only hits the bottom of the throne and the doorway, and is only a sliver of light in the lustral basin. Restoring the doorways to their original height may offer even more insight into this phenomenon. A computer simulation could also be used for this. It would also be interesting to see the gypsum of 116


Archaeology the lustral basin polished to a high shine to see exactly how the light reflected on its surface. It is clear that light was utilized in a very special way in this complex and there should be more research into how it was used. It would also be fascinating to find other sites such as this, for instance Quartier Mu, Mallia, and determine whether the alignment of the sun is present there. I wonder if the moon holds any significance in the complex. Does a full new moon beam down into the lustral basin via the light well? It may be slightly romantic to presume so much association with the heavenly bodies! But the moon moves across the sky as the sun does, but perhaps is not as dramatic (and not as bright) as the light of the sun. We will not know if this is possible until further experiments are conducted, but Guarita and Goodison have indeed opened new doors into research at Knossos.

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Archaeology Bibliography Evans, A., 1921-1935, The Palace of Minos at Knossos, London Gesell, G. C., 1987, ‘The Minoan Palace and Public Cult’, in R. Hägg and N. Marinatos (eds.) The Function of Minoan Palaces, Stolkholm 123-128 Goodison, L., 2001, ‘From Tholos Tomb to Throne Room: perceptions of the sun in Minoan ritual’, in R. Hägg and R. Laffineur (eds.) Potnia. Deities and Religion in the Aegean Bronze Age, Aegeum 23, Liege & Texas 77-88 Niemeier, W. D., 1987, ‘On the Function of the “Throne Room” in the Palace at Knossos”, in R. Hägg and N. Marinatos (eds.) The Function of Minoan Palaces, Stolkholm 163-168

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The ‘Hero Cult’ and The ‘Tomb Cult’ in Early Greek Society Amy Quinn

Junior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology and Theology In ancient Greece, heroic figures were known for performing magnificent feats of skill and bravery and while they were not gods, the fact that they lived and died as mortals only made their achievements all the greater. After death they were bestowed with honours such as sacrifices and prayers as well as shrines and altars established in their name and they were commemorated in athletic games and works of literature. Several different types of hero existed including local, epic and mythic heroes, warriors, city founders and healers. By the Late Classical period (c.400-336 BCE) athletes and the ordinary dead were heroized (Antonaccio 1995, p.1). Cults developed devoted to the worship of these heroes and are of much interest to us today, with scholars undertaking valuable research into the subject and contributing their ideas to the discussion, some of which I will detail here. How the practice of these so-called ‘hero cults’ (and the closely related ‘tomb cult’) came into being is one of the most elusive factors that archaeologists and historians are still considering. Following the collapse of the Mycenaean civilization in c.1100 BCE, there was a notable change in the material culture of the Early Iron Age, often characterized as an era of decline and sometimes referred to as the ‘Dark Age’ (c.1100-750 BCE). There was a decrease in the wealth, quality and quantity of materials and many sites were abandoned. Tombs are our best source of Iron Age information alongside evidence collected from sanctuaries. In most regions there was a shift from traditional group burials in chamber and tholos tombs to individual graves and a certain aspect of Mycenaean culture lingered in the secondary use of some Mycenaean tombs (Antonaccio 1995, p.2-3). In later Iron Age society (Ninth and Eighth centuries BCE), panhellenism became a unifying force amongst the various regions with the Olympic games, Delphi oracle and common artistic styles becoming familiar 119


Archaeology to most around Greece. Along with a distinct rise in population and nucleated settlements being favored, the development of poleis and ethnoi forms of political organization began. At this important stage in Greek history there was yet another great advancement with the spread of the Homeric myths. This is significant especially in regards to the rise of hero cults as these myths spoke of the great figures of the ‘glorious’ Mycenaean and Bronze Age, reviving people’s interest in the heroic past. Their fascination can be seen in the archaeological evidence of heroic burial customs such as dedications of weapons and animal sacrifice and the depictions of epic scenes on Geometric art (c.900-700 BCE). Some scholars have identified Homeric poetry as spurring the creation of hero shrines and the abundance of votive offerings (such as figurines and pottery) at Bronze Age tombs (Antonaccio 1995, p.3-5). Formal hero cults (worshipping a named hero/heroine at shrines constructed for such a purpose) saw an increase in the Eighth century and were at first considered similar to the placing of contemporary votive offerings in Mycenaean tombs, but the practices are rather different. Tomb deposits are now given their own category under the title of ‘tomb cult’. This term had originally been used to describe occasional family tomb visits in the Classical period but now also applies to people from the Iron Age onwards visiting Mycenaean tombs. Hero shrines differ from those of tomb cults in several ways; hero shrines can be found at Mycenaean settlement sites but not at tombs and tomb shrines are anonymous, modest in their offerings and there is no construction of a permanent installation. Tomb cults are also usually one-time visits (though there is evidence of visits over longer periods of time) while the hero cults constituted an ongoing practice. (Antonaccio 1995, p.6) The theory that Homeric inspiration was the stimulant behind tomb cults will be looked at alongside another theory that claims their development as a continuation of Bronze Age veneration of ancestors or ‘tendance’ (Whitley 1988, p.173), which occurred at certain tombs even during the Dark Age. It is now generally thought that the Eighth century brought on an ancestral yearning which can be seen in ritual, art and literature. Rather than simply being mere nostalgia for past times, some scholars believe this interest in their ancestors served to cement the positions of elite individuals and families threatened by the emerging polis. Archaeologists have been trying to discern the effect the epics had on the attitudes and behavior of the Iron Age people and if their influence has been overestimated. At Lefkandi on the island of Euboea for example, burials have been uncovered in the style of Homeric heroic practice but they 120


Archaeology date from the Tenth century BCE, well before the diffusion of Homeric poetry (Antonaccio 1995, p.6). The question still stands of why local inhabitants would associate tholos and chamber tombs with epic Homeric figures when the burial practices described in Homer more greatly resemble contemporary customs? (Whitley 1988, p.174) Some would conclude from this that people were not trying to recreate epic burials but simply adhering to their own traditional practices. However, J.M Cook strongly believes that Homer was the catalyst in the spread of tomb cult and that the previous memories of the tombs had been lost and were later reawakened with the renewed interest in epic heroes (Antonaccio 1994, p.394). There are some exciting parallels between hero worship and the epics, such as the finds at a cult of Odysseus in a cave at Polis Bay on Ithaca where thirteen bronze tripods were discovered within, along with an inscribed dedication to Odysseus on a female mask. The thirteen tripods are mentioned in the epic poem when Odysseus is presented with them by thirteen kings. However, Odysseus’ name is mentioned only once at the shrine and dates to a later period than expected. His name was found along with other dedications to Hera, Athena and nymphs. Without the presence of the tripods no-one would think it was a shrine to the hero and it appears he was most likely a later addition to an already existing shrine to other deities (Antonaccio 1995, p.153). It is clear that scholars are finding it difficult to harmonize the literary hero and later hero cult. Apart from the epics the earliest source mentioning hero cult is from the Seventh century, when Drakon the Athenian lawgiver prescribes that all local gods and heroes be honoured in accordance with ancestral custom (which indicates a well established practice). E. Rhode maintained that the Homeric poems represented the beliefs of Ionian Greeks and not mainland Greeks and therefore did not play a big role in relation to hero cult. He argues that Homer knew nothing of hero cult, but of course this can’t be proven and cannot be assumed because he did not write about it. Rhode thinks that hero cult was a revival and amplification of ancestor veneration. The worship of the ancestors of noble families over time broadened into hero worship, with heroes names fabricated when familial names had been lost (Antonaccio 1994, p.390). The emergence of hero cults is sometimes associated with a loss of stable power in the Late Iron Age as land struggles were occurring between different groups as they transitioned from grazing cattle to growing crops. According to Anthony Snodgrass, heroes became of great use in these situations when people could draw on past greatness to emphasize their own. As the tomb cult offerings are rather modest, he sees them as a private dedica121


Archaeology tion to ancestors. The hero cults however ensured the protection of a farmer’s land. Snodgrass points to the scarcity of tomb cults in places like Thessaly and Crete where a serf-like population dominates and so local heroes would not be as useful. He believes that the Messenian tomb cults grew out of resistance against Lakonian invasion until the Fifth century, while Archaic and Classical cults were used to support the territorial expansion of the polis (Antonaccio 1995, p.7). It is true that the possession of heroic relics, especially a hero’s bones, was the subject of constant dispute between competing poleis who exploited them to stimulate propaganda and solidify territorial claim (McCauley 1995, p.97). Snodgrass responds to the question of why so many cults are dedicated to anonymous figures (especially when the Iliad and Odyssey were full of heroic names) by concluding that the heroes must have been anonymous at the time their cults were instituted (Whitley 1988, p.174-175). James Whitely also looked into the rise of tomb cults while focusing on the regions of Attica and the Argolid. He draws attention to a rise in settlements in Attica from the Ninth century to the Late Geometric, which some scholars interpret as not simply a re-settlement of fallow land but as part of an internal re-colonization of the Attic countryside by Athens itself. It is probable that the re-settlement and Bronze Age tomb offerings are related but if this was to be attributed to free peasants cementing a title to their new land then these offerings would be expected to be made by new, small communities of the Eighth century, which is not the case. In at least three sites (Menidhi, Eleusis and Thorikos) offerings found in tombs and hero veneration is found in areas occupied from Protogeometric times. Only at Aliki Glyphada do the patterns of offerings fit into Snodgrass’s model. In other areas offerings in Mycenaean tombs appear to be the work of older communities within the Attic region. Whitley agrees that this is connected with landholdings but not in the way Snodgrass suggests. Whitley believes that the institution of cults was a reaction by settled, rich communities to the founding of small settlements around them. By doing this they were making an ideological claim to be of greater antiquity (and of more importance) than the newcomers as the indigenous inhabitants of Attica. These actions were directed as much towards Athens as the new communities as they wished to emphasize their local autochthony. The offerings may have been performed by elites rather than free peasants, attested by rich Geometric burials at Anavyssos and Eleusis (Whitley 1988, p.177-178). In the Argolid, unlike Attica where they are more dispersed, votives are concentrated at the three major sites of Mycenae, Argos and Prosymna. 122


Archaeology The Argolid had a different political climate to Athens with the region divided into several sovereign poleis. In the Archaic and Classical periods Argos had tried to exert hegemony over the region. De Polignac argues for the crucial role played by extra-urban sanctuaries in territorial claims of early city states (the Perachora Temple was placed on a boundary) and that the establishment of cult practices on these sites helped to define territory and unite less settled regions of the polis. Offerings are mostly found at urban sites which indicate that they were a political act by elites and if not performed by the state, at least encouraged by them. In the Argolid, hero cult related to the city states ideological needs which they used to symbolically define themselves. Whitley concludes that hero cult offerings were highly political, more so than other scholars have allowed for (Whitley 1988, p.178-182). While it is useful to look for regional patterns, the main problem with Whitley’s investigation is that by selecting two regions he has not used the evidence from those outside his study and so his range is too narrow. However, he is correct that the historical and social aspects surrounding hero cult are important to our study and should be considered alongside the archaeological evidence. J. N. Coldstream has put forward his own views regarding the development of tomb and hero cult by responding to L.R. Farnell who in 1921 stated “We so often hear how saga reflects cult that we are in danger of ignoring the reverse truth, that cult may reflect saga”(Coldstream 1976, p.8). Coldstream admits that the subject of Greek hero-worship is an untidy one. He looks at the estimated ‘Age of Homer’, dating between c.750-650 BCE, when the Homeric myths were being diffused throughout Greece. If hero cult was something inspired by Homer then no votive offerings should have dated to before this period (Coldstream 1976, p.8), but some do. He believes in the power of the Homeric myths in the development of hero cult. He claims that the currency of epic explains votives left by Dorian Greeks in Mycenaean tombs who, as an immigrant population, would not have otherwise paid any respect to their Mycenaean predecessors. He defends his theory against hero cults preceding the Age of Homer by arguing that they represent racial continuity (Antonaccio 1994, p.395). Coldstream points out that there must be a distinction between offerings given in hero worship and those given in family affection. Immediately after death, offerings are left for the deceased to ease their journey into the afterlife, but this does not mean the person is thought of as superhuman. He states that only after several generations have passed and offerings are left away from any contemporary buildings or burials that it can be considered hero cult (Coldstream 1979, p.8). He explains the absence of votives in one 123


Archaeology region and their presence in another to the existing burial practices in each area. In Mycenae for instance, the current settlers may have been coming across former Mycenaean burials quite frequently and would not have found any novelty in them; hence no votives. People used to simpler graves on the other hand would have been amazed at such tombs and were more likely to leave offerings in reverence (Coldstream 1976, p.13-16). This would be especially so if the people’s imaginations had been stirred by Homer. He also suggests that the Greeks may have known where the tombs were but did not always feel obliged to visit and leave offerings. However, he has been criticized for including accidental intrusion into tombs in his analysis (Antonaccio 1994, p.396). The scholar Carl Blegen, writing in the 1930s, thought that the tomb cults were never lost in the memory of the Greeks but this does not fit with all regional evidence (Antonaccio 1994, p.192). There is evidence to show that Greeks did respect older burials such as the example of the Late Geometric gravedigger who, while searching for a place to bury a child’s remains, accidentally dug into a Middle Helladic (c.2000-1550 BCE) burial, damaging the skull. It appears that he tried to reassemble the broken cranium and left a piece of oinochoe pottery as an apology before covering over the burial. However, not all Greeks showed such deference towards the dead. During the Dark Age old burials were frequently cut by new ones in the Kerameikos Cemetery and the Mycenaeans were constantly sweeping out old burials and tombs to make room for the newly deceased. In contrast, when they extended their fortification walls in the Thirteenth century BCE they specifically included the Grave Circle within their citadel, perhaps to reinforce ancestral links, but it is always possible that they were thinking of reusing the burial ground. The archaeologist Spyridon Marinatos reckoned that grave robbers would sometimes leave offerings to those whose tomb they pilfered as an apology and because they were fascinated with the splendor of unfamiliar burial practices. This may be slightly romanticized thinking but it is interesting to consider. Many votives simply seem to be the private offerings of ordinary people who, hearing of past heroic feats, paid homage to men of an age more glorious than their own. This carries an implication that they felt a sense of inferiority compared with their ancestors (Coldstream 1976, p.11-14). It seems evident that there were several reasons for the rise of hero cult and many scholars do believe that its origins can be found in ancestral veneration. The major difference between the two is that ancestors only pertained to one’s own predecessors while hero cults were the concern of 124


Archaeology the entire community. However, this is our modern view of the practice and we cannot know if this distinction was considered by the early Greeks. Archaeologists are looking into one potential origin of heroic cult development dating to as early as the Late Geometric period, when some burial grounds had certain buildings and structures possibly used for recurring ritual. Such ceremonies may have been dedicated to long-dead family members as well as those recently deceased. A few special cases in the Argolid and on Naxos indicate that proper heroic cults were performed as a continuation at these installations which were originally burial grounds (Hägg 1995, p.37). This is another interesting step forward in the argument in favour of ancestral veneration as the ancestor of tomb cult. The wide-ranging and differing scholarly opinion on the subject of tomb and hero cult is almost never-ending. However, each scholar has something to contribute to the research into such practices and highlight the need for a diachronic perspective. It is clear that Greek ancestor and hero worship was dynamic and changing and so our theories must be open to this fact. What is evident from the ongoing investigation into Greek tomb and hero cult practices is that they served very important and varied purposes, whether it was to infuse an identity onto the land or as pawns of political powers. Whatever the intention, these cults succeeded in strengthening the ancient Greeks’ ties with their past.

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Archaeology Bibliography Antonaccio, C. An Archaeology of Ancestors: Tomb and Hero Cult in Early Greece (Rowman & Littlefield: Lanham, 1995) Antonaccio, C “Contesting the Past: Hero Cult, Tomb Cult and Epic in Early Greece” American Journal of Archaeology Vol.98 (1994) pp. 389-410 Coldstream J.N “Hero-Cults in the Age of Homer” Journal of Hellenic Studies Vol. 96 (1976) pp. 8-17 Hägg, R “Funerary Ritual, Veneration of Ancestors and the Cult of Heroes in Geometric Greece” (Abstract) in R. Hägg’s (ed.) Ancient Greek Hero Cult: Proceedings of Fifth International Seminar on Ancient Greek Cult 25-27 (Göteborg, 1995) p. 37 McCauley, B “Heroes and Power: The Politics of Bone Transferal” in R. Hägg’s (ed.) Ancient Greek Hero Cult: Proceedings of Fifth International Seminar on Ancient Greek Cult 25-27 (Göteborg, 1995) pp. 85-98 Whitley, J “Early States and Greek Heroes: A Re-appraisal” Journal of Hellenic Studies Vol. 108 (1988) pp. 173-182

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The Archaeological Evidence for Leprosy in The Ancient World Louise O’Brien

Senior Sophister, Ancient History and Archaeology and English Hansen’s disease, or leprosy, effects a quarter of a million people in the world today but evidence from written sources and excavation suggest that it was a more severe problem in the past. There are references in ancient literature, the Bible being among the most well-known, which make mention of leprosy and indicate that it has been known since ancient times. These references, however, are vague and controversial and need to be supported by other forms of evidence. In the material record there are also problems with identifying the remains of leprosy sufferers including the selectiveness of samples and excavations, the rate of survival of skeletal remains and the issue of segregation when applied to burial. Through the investigation of the evidence for leprosy in the both the literary and material record this account will demonstrate some of the difficulties in the identification of a specific disease within an ancient context and question if collaborative consideration of these records proffers more persuasive evidence or is fundamentally unreliable. To properly understand the bone changes which indicate the presence of the skeletal remains of leprosy sufferers within archaeological assemblages it is first necessary to understand the permanent skeletal transformations which the symptoms of the disease create within the sufferer. An understanding of the physical symptoms also helps to identify the presence of the disease within literary sources. Leprosy is caused by Mycobacterium Leprae. The earliest diagnostic sign of the presence of the disease is the presence of lesions in the form of non-elevated spots ranging in size and colour from close to that of the skin pigment to ashen grey (Grmek 1989, p.153). The initial spots appear usually on the face and are isolated but, as the disease progresses, they may also appear on the buttocks, arms, legs and the trunk of the body (Grmek 1989, p.152-153). Physical changes occur in the facial features and in peripheral regions such as the hands and feet; these are associated with skeletal changes which then remain in the archaeological record. The bacterium infects the face and it becomes nodular; the nose collapses and the 127


Archaeology eyes become infected. Within the bone structure of the face there is pitting of the palate and loss of bone density in the upper jaw, particularly in the area of the incisors. The nasal spine is absorbed, the nasal cavity is re-modelled and there is inflammation of the septum. This is known as the facies leprosa, leontiasis or Bergen Syndrome and results in the general swelling of the face, erythema, wrinkles, detaching of the ears, hypertrophied lips and loss of facial hair (Grmek 1989, p.153). Other facial features include a dipping in the bridge of the nose which is later followed by a perforation of the septum and results in saddle-nose deformity. The teeth may also loosen and fall out due to resorption of the jaw (Andersen, Manchester 1992, p.122). The main changes to the bone structure are in the hands, feet, tibia, and fibula and rhinomaxillary region (Mariotti 2005). The bone changes which occur are as a result of secondary infections or the inflammatory changes; re-absorption of the fingers and toes may also occur (Roberts, Manchester 2005, p.195-196). There are some specific pathological conditions which need to be present within the osteoarchaeological assemblage before a diagnosis of Hansen’s disease can be attained; these include rhinomaxillary changes and inflammation of the periosteum in the region of the tibia and lesions. In all cases only five percent of sufferers experience significant bone changes and these changes are similar to those found with other disorders such as trauma, tuberculoses and scurvy. For example, a study of leprous individuals from a medieval leprosy hospital cemetery in Chichester, Britain found that seventy-six percent of leprosy sufferers had bone changes to the lower leg bones but that sixty percent of non-leprous individuals, mostly monks buried in the same area, had similar bone changes (Roberts, Manchester 2005, p.197). A modern clinicopathological study carried out by Peterson found only fifty-four percent of eight hundred and ninety-four cases in Hong Kong had developed bone changes (Manchester 1984, p.171). This creates a problem in the identification of the remains of leprosy sufferers as compared to those suffering from other diseases or injuries. Møller-Christensen studied a number of known sufferers of Hansen’s disease and came to the conclusion that Bergen’s syndrome also gave pathological features to the skull which were a characteristic of the disease; these changes have subsequently come to be known as rhinomaxillary syndrome (Ortner 2002, p.73). Møller-Christensen regarded rhinomaxillary syndrome as characteristic of the pathological symptoms and considered the presence of the destruction of the anterior nasal spine as enough to allow for a diagnosis of leprosy (Collins Cook 2002, p.81), however, in her paper regarding rhinomaxillary syndrome in the absence of leprosy, Della Collins Cook argues that the skeletal symptoms as128


Archaeology sociated with rhinomaxillary syndrome can also be mimicked by syphilis, periodontis and trauma (Collins Cook 2002, p.83). To counter this problem Møller-Christensen suggests that the changes to the rhinomaxillary areas of the facial structure should also be associated with relevant pathological changes in the tibiae and fibulae and should be accompanied by significant changes in the hands (Mariotti 2005). There is a marked physical change to be seen in the appearance of sufferers of leprosy which have been identified within primary written sources, although such identification remains controversial in many cases. An example is in the Ebers papyrus from sixteenth century Egypt. In their article Gwen Robbins et al (Robbins et al. 2009) consider the mention of tumours in the Ebers papyrus to be a clear reference to leprosy but S.G. Brown argues that the swelling discussed is not indicative of Hansen’s disease (Brown 1970, p.640). This difference of opinion demonstrates the difficulty in recognising the presence of leprosy from written sources; as it was largely considered to be a skin complaint descriptions usually centre on describing the presence of lesions and, as a number of diseases include spots of various sorts, leprosy is difficult to specifically indentify from these descriptions. Other examples of possible early references to leprosy are from the Bible; these references could be to states of ritual uncleanness rather than to leprosy however; a possibility which is further supported by a lack of archaeological evidence supporting the presence of leprosy in the Southern Levant before the Ninth century AD (Roberts, Manchester 2005, p.202). In Leviticus there is a discussion of Zarā`at which is a ritual notion regarding the impurity of a person which leads to their isolation from the community. The description of Zarā`at shows that it as a medical reality but the pathology that is described has several characteristics which do not respond to any known disease; it is possible this refers to a whole set of skin diseases although the expulsion of a sufferer from the community suggests that there must be a risk from the disease suggesting that it may be leprosy as this is the only chronic skin disease which is severe enough to justify such radical behaviour. If the reference in the Bible is to leprosy then the absence of skeletal remains from the archaeological record could be due to segregation in burials (Grmek 1989, p.160-162). Within the Greek tradition Herodotus speaks of the proscriptions in Persia against lēpra, the scaly disease, and leūkē, the white disease (Herodotus 1.138). If Persians contracted this they were not allowed into town. It is possible that this term is a purely descriptive one referring to pathological details of the disease (Grmek 1989, p.163-164). In the Hippocratic Corpus the word lēpra comes up but the use is not clear enough to prove that it is referring to lep129


Archaeology rosy and it appears to be etymologically closer to psoriasis or eczema and benign in nature (Grmek 1989, p.165). The literary evidence discussed above can be considered in collaboration with the archaeological data. There are problems associated with the preservation of evidence of Hansen’s disease in the archaeological assemblage. Leprosy is a disfiguring disease and there is reliable evidence from historical periods that burials of sufferers were often segregated from other burials meaning that mortuary samples will not necessarily give an accurate portrayal of the occurrence of the disease. The low preservation rate of small bones within burials is also a problematic issue; that these bones do not survive well affects the ability of researchers to carry out differential diagnosis. One of the earliest examples of the material remains of a possible leprosy sufferer in the Mediterranean world is from a fourth century BC burial from the necropolis of Casalecchio di Reno, Bologna in Italy. In a burial here, denoted Tomb 24, there are the remains of an adult male approximately thirty to forty years old. The remains demonstrate a number of features which would be expected of a leprosy sufferer; the surviving metatarsals are tapered on the distal ends and there is evidence for diaphyseal remodelling; there are also bone lesions on the surfaces of the metatarsals which would be consistent with the invasion of the bone by mycobacterium, although this could also be caused by secondary infections occurring after any injury which led to the ulceration of the bone (Mariotti 2005). Although there is evidence here that the remains are of a leprosy sufferer there is also a possibility that it was a secondary infection which was responsible for bone alterations and so a clear diagnosis cannot be reached. An excavation from Dakhleh in Egypt of a burial from the Roman period gives clearer evidence for the presence of leprosy as there are both rhinomaxillary alterations and changes to the peripheral bone structure to support the diagnosis (Molto 2002, p.179). The burial is of a male aged 28.7 +/- 6.5 years. Changes to the rhinomaxillary region are indicative of the presence of leprosy based on the hypothesis of Møller-Christensen discussed above. There are also changes to the hands including periosteal new bone on the palmar surfaces of all of the right metacarpals and on the palmar and dorsal surfaces of all of the left metacarpals. There is palmar grooving on the anterior distal margins of the proximal phalanges of both hands demonstrating the development of claw hand deformity (Molto 2002, p.180). The practice of identifying leprosy in remains solely through physical examination of the bones was challenged in an investigation of remains from the first century AD Tomb of the Shroud in Akeldama, Jerusalem. 130


Archaeology Here genetic analyses of bio-archaeological remains, including molecular screening for disease, were carried out on remains from treated bones within an ossuary. The result included the earliest attested DNA sample of the bacteria mycobacterium leprae. There is controversy about using this type of genetic analysis as some scholars do not believe that the bacteria can be preserved in the soil this long and so consider its presence due to contamination. The investigators argue against this and claim the highest standards of care were utilised to prevent contamination and that there is strong bacterial selfpreservation evident even in sub-optimal environmental conditions meaning that the bacteria could survive (Matheson 2009). As can be seen from the discussion above there are a number of problems in determining the presence of Hansen’s disease in the sources and material record. Among these are the vagueness of the descriptions and the poor survival rate of the material evidence; which affect the ability of scholars working with the evidence to evaluate the presence of leprosy in the ancient record. There are a number of diseases which effect the skeleton in a manner similar to Hansen’s disease and it is beginning to be understood that the presence of rhinomaxillary syndrome, assumed after the work of MøllerChristensen to be enough to base a diagnosis on, is not sufficient evidence to recognise the presence of a leprosy; this must also be associated with changes to the hands and feet as discussed above. As the metacarpals and metatarsals of a skeleton do not always survive well, or are lost during excavation, it can be difficult to identify the necessary changes to these to make a diagnosis. Recent genetic analysis, as carried out in Jerusalem, could be the answer to these problems, although not all investigators are convinced of the validity of these studies; in the future, the diagnosis of leprosy in the archaeological record may become more reliable.

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Archaeology Bibliography Andersen, Johs G. & Manchester, Keith. The Rhinomaxillary Syndrome in Leprosy: a Clinical, Radiological and Paleopathological Study, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology. (2:2, 1992), pp.121-129 Brown, S.G. How Old is Leprosy?, British Medical Journal (3,1970), pp.640641 Collins Cook, Della. “Rhinomaxillary Syndrome in the Absence of leprosy: an Exercise in Differential Diagnosis” in Roberts, Charlotte A., Lewis, Mary E. And Manchester, Keith (eds). The Past and Present of Leprosy: Archaeological, Historical, Paleopathological and Clinical Approaches. (Oxford: Archeopress, 2002) Grmek, Mirko Drazen. Diseases in the Ancient Greek World. (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1989) Herodotus. The Histories. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1949) Manchester, Keith. Tuberculosis and Leprosy in Antiquity: An Interpretation, Medical History. (28:2, 1984),pp.162-173 Mariotti, V et al. Probable Early Presence of leprosy in Europe in a Celtic Skeleton of the 4th – 3rd Century, International Journal of Osteoarchaeology. (15:5, 2005), pp.311-325 Molto, Joseph E. “Leprosy in Roman Period Skeletons from Kellis 2, Dakhleh” in Roberts, Charlotte A., Lewis, Mary E. And Manchester, Keith (eds). The past and Present of Leprosy: Archaeological, Historical, Paleopathological and Clinical Approaches. (Oxford: Archeopress, 2002) Ortner, Donald J. “Observations on the Pathogenesis of Skeletal Disease in Leprosy” in Roberts, Charlotte A., Lewis, Mary E. And Manchester, Keith (eds). The past and Present of Leprosy: Archaeological, Historical, Paleopathological and Clinical Approaches. (Oxford: Archeopress, 2002) Roberts, Charlotte & Manchester, Keith. The Archaeology of Disease. (Stroud: Sutton, 2005) 132




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