The Double Life of Duke of Somerset v Cookson, or a Legal Excavation of the Corbridge Lanx

Duke of Somerset v Cookson (1735) occupies an important place in English legal history as a leading authority for Chancery jurisdiction to order specific delivery of movable property where an award of damages would be inadequate. The property at issue was the Corbridge lanx, now in the British Museum, but then claimed as treasure trove by the duke of Somerset as lord of the manor of Corbridge. This paper re-examines Cookson as the first reported English decision relating to treasure trove, and uses later treasure trove claims by the duke of Somerset's successors to the manor of Corbridge, the dukes of Northumberland, to shed fresh light on the 1735 decision and on the development of treasure trove practice from the eighteenth century onwards.

The anticipatory space of the bunker, modernity’s dark mirror

The buried and semi-buried bunker, bulwark since the early eighteenth century against increasingly sophisticated forms of ordnance, emerged in increasing number in Europe throughout the twentieth century across a series of scales from the household Anderson shelter to the vast infrastructural works of the Maginot and Siegfried lines, or the Atlantic Wall. Its latest proliferation took place during the Cold War. From these perspectives, it is as emblematic of modernity as the department store, the great exhibition, the skyscraper or the machine-inspired domestic space advocated by Le Corbusier. It also represents the obverse, or perhaps a parodic iteration, of the preoccupations of early architectural modernism: a vast underground international style, cast in millions of tons of thick, reinforced concrete retaining walls, whose spatial relationship to the landscape above was strictly mediated through the periscope, the loop-hole, the range finder and the strategic necessity to both resist and facilitate the technologies and scopic regimes of weaponry. Embarking from Bunker Archaeology, this paper critically uncoils Paul Virillo’s observation, that once physically eclipsed in its topographical and technical settings, the bunker’s efficacy would mutate to other domains, retaining and remaking its meaning in another topology during the Cold War. ‘The essence of the new fortress’ he writes ‘is elsewhere, underfoot, invisible from here on in’. Shaped by this impulse, this paper seeks to render visible the bunker’s significance in a wider milieu and, in doing so, excavate some of the relationships between the physical artefact, its implications and its enduring metaphorical and perceptual ghosts.

Dublin’s ephemeral and imaginary architectures

In 1989, the Irish architectural practice O’Donnell and Tuomey were commissioned to build a temporary pavilion to represent Ireland at the 11 Cities/11 Nations exhibition at Leeuwarden in the Netherlands. Citing Peter Smithson, John Tuomey suggested the pavilion, which drew inspirations from the forms and materials of the modern Irish barn, embodied an intention ‘not just to build but to communicate’. Its subsequent reassembly for the inauguration of the Irish Museum of Modern Art in the courtyard of the seventeenth-century Royal Hospital Kilmainham in Dublin in 1991, drew comparisons between the urban sophistication of this colonial building, its svelte new refit, and the rural expression of O’Donnell + Tuomey’s barn. It was, one critic recently noted, as if ‘a wedding had been crashed by a country cousin who had forgotten to clean his boots’.
It has been argued that temporary or ephemeral pieces of architecture, unburdened by the traditional constraints of firmitas or utilitas, have the ability to offer a concise distillation of meaning and intention. Approaching the qualities of rhetoric, such architectures share similarities with the monument and yet differ in fundamental ways. Their rapid construction in lightweight materials can allow for an almost instantaneous negotiation of zeitgeist. And, unlike the monument, from the outset the space and form of these installations is designed to disappear.
This paper analyses the ephemeral architectures of Dublin in the modern period contextualising their qualities and intentions as they manifest themselves across colonial, post-colonial and contemporary epochs. It finds origins in the theatrical sets of the late eighteenth century and traces their movements into the semi-public sphere of the pleasure garden and finally into the theatre of the streets. It is here that temporary architecture in the city has been at its most potent, allowing the amplification or subversion of the meanings of much larger spaces. Historically, much of Dublin’s most conspicuous instances of ephemeral architecture have been realised as a means of articulating mass spectacle in political, religious or nationalistic events. And while much of this has sought to confirm dominant ideologies, it has also been possible to discern moments of opposition.
The contemporary period, however, has arguably witnessed a shift in ephemeral architectures from explicitly representing ‘positive ideologies’ towards something more oblique or nebulous. This turn towards abstraction in form and space has rendered an especially communicative form of architecture particularly elusive. By examining continuities within the apparent disjuncture between historical and contemporary examples, this paper begins to unpick the language of recent ephemeral architecture in Dublin and situate it within wider global trends where political and economic imperatives are often simultaneously obscured and expressed in public space by a vocabulary of universality. As Jurgen Habermas has suggested, the contemporary value given to the transitory and the ephemeral ‘discloses a longing for an undefiled, immaculate and stable present’.

Depicting Characters and danced Narratives: Handel, 'The Italian troupe', and Marie Sallé

Handel’s London career afforded opportunities for responding to dancers working in distinct styles of movement—most notably the Italian troupe resident at the King’s Theatre in 1726-27, and Marie Sallé at Covent Garden in 1734-35. By studying the dances from Admeto (1727) and Ariodante (1735), this paper will explore Handel's response to the serious and grotesque styles, as well as to the character and narrative modes.

Religion, anti-slavery, and identity: Irish Presbyterians, the United States, and transatlantic evangelicalism, c. 1820-1914

Scholars have devoted much attention to the causes and consequences of Presbyterian emigration from Ulster to the thirteen colonies before 1776. This article moves beyond the eighteenth century to examine the continued religious links between Presbyterians in Ireland and the United States in the nineteenth century. It begins with an examination of the influence of evangelicalism on both sides of the Atlantic and how this promoted unity in denominational identity, missionary activity to convert Catholics, and revivalist religion during the first half of the century. Though Irish Presbyterians had great affection for their American co-religionists, they were not uncritical, and significant tensions did develop over slavery. The article then examines the religious character of Scotch-Irish or Ulster-Scots identity in the late nineteenth century, which was articulated in response to the alleged demoralising influence of large-scale Irish immigration during and after the Famine of the 1840s, the so-called Romanisation of Catholicism, and the threat of Home Rule in Ireland. The importance of identity politics should not obscure religious developments, and the article ends with a consideration of the origins and character of fundamentalism, perhaps one of the most important cultural connections between Protestants in Northern Ireland and the United States in the twentieth century.

Swift and Conversational Culture

Swift often noted his aversion to coffee-house conversation and to tavern talk, to gossip and company, and to being buried in Dublin in the years of his Deanship. Yet the popular myth of a morose, unsociable Swift belies both his engagement with various literary and political clubs in his early career and his participation in collaborative and experimental poetic games in his Dublin circles. This essay considers Swift’s involvement with three clubs in London (the Saturday Club, the Brothers’ Club, and the Scriblerians) and his writings on a number of fictional clubs (the Athenian Society, the Calves-Head Club, and a putative Society for the correction of the English language). While Swift wrote very little of his experience of actual clubs, the latter three, in addition to the Scriblerian Club as an imagined, rather than actual clubs, resulted in a number of defining poems and works in his career. When Swift settled in Dublin, poetry written and exchanged in a number of sociable circles characterised much of his published verse and gave glimpses of the circles and informal clubs which he formed among friends there. Although these poems are often dismissed as ‘trifles’, the essay argues that the poems are crucial for our understandings of ‘conversational culture’ or sociability in Swift’s Dublin.

Gender and Material Culture in Britain since 1600

What does material culture tell us about gendered identities and how does gender reveal the meaning of spaces and things?

If we look at the objects that we own, covet and which surround us in our everyday culture, there is a clear connection between ideas about gender and the material world. This book explores the material culture of the past to shed light on historical experiences and identities. Some essays focus on specific objects, such as an eighteenth-century jug or a twentieth-century powder puff, others on broader material environments, such as the sixteenth-century guild or the interior of a twentieth-century pub, while still others focus on the paraphernalia associated with certain actions, such as letter-writing or maintaining eighteenth-century men's hair.

Written by scholars in a range of history-related disciplines, the essays in this book offer exposés of current research methods and interests. These demonstrate to students how a relationship between material culture and gender is being addressed, while also revealing a variety of intellectual approaches and topics.

The Dublin Lock Hospital: Medicine, Morality, Disease and Sin

Anecdotal evidence has it that when Dublin’s venereal disease hospital closed its doors for the last time in the 1950s, its administrative staff began to burn its records, starting with the most recent. This attempt to conceal the results of sexual profligacy is perhaps understandable in the rarefied climate of mid-century Catholic Ireland. However, the sense of shame attached to this institution has been pervasive. For example, of all Dublin’s major hospitals, the lock hospital remains the only one without a dedicated history. And, throughout its two centuries of existence, the ‘lock’ had often been a site of controversy and approbation.

The institution began in the eighteenth century as the most peripatetic, poor relation of the city’s voluntary hospitals, wandering indiscriminately through a series of temporary premises before finally achieving a permanent home and official recognition as a military-sponsored medical hospital in 1792. It also gained architectural extensions by both Richard and Francis Johnston and in the following decades. This new-found status and a growing re-conceptualisation of venereal disease as a legitimate medical problem rather than a matter of morality was, however, somewhat compromised by the choice of site at Townsend Street. The institution occupied a hidden part of city, appropriating the vacated home of the Hospital for Incurables, another marginalised group whose presence in the city had been viewed through the lens of superstition and fear. For the rest of its existence, the lock hospital would share this experience occupying a nebulous position between medicine and morality; disease and sin.

Using what’s left of the hospital’s records and a series of original architectural drawings, this paper discusses the presence and role of the lock hospital in the city in the eighteenth and early nineteenth century, tracking how changes in its administration and architectural form reflected wider attitudes towards disease, sexuality and gender in Georgian Dublin.

Protestantism, Spectacle, Motherhood and Vice: Dublin's New Pleasure Gardens

In 1748, Bartholomew Mosse, a curious combination of surgeon, obstetrician and entertainment impresario, established a pleasure garden on the northern fringes of Dublin. Ostensibly designed to fund the construction of a maternity hospital to be located adjacently, Mosse’s New Pleasure Gardens became one of the premier leisure resorts in Dublin. This was to have a profound effect on the city’s urban form. Within a few years the gardens became an epicentre of speculative development as the upper classes jostled to build their houses in the vicinity. Meanwhile, the creation nearby of Sackville Mall, a wide and generous strolling ground, established a whole section of the city dedicated to haute spectacle, display and leisure. Like other pleasure gardens in the British Isles, Mosse’s venture introduced new, commodified forms of entertainment. In the colonial context of eighteenth-century Ireland, however, ‘a land only recently won and insecurely held’ (Foster, 1988) by the Protestant Anglo-Irish settler class, the production of culture and spectacle was perhaps more significant than elsewhere. Indeed, the form of Mosse’s gardens echoed the private city gardens of a key figure in the Anglo-Irish aristocracy, while the hospital itself was constructed in a style of a Palladian country house, symbol of colonial presence in the countryside. However, like other pleasure gardens, the mix of music and alcohol, the heterogeneous crowd culled from across social and gender boundaries, and a landscape punctuated with secluded corners, meant that it also acquired a dubious reputation as a haunt of louche and illicit behaviours. The curious juxtaposition between a maternity hospital and pleasure garden, therefore, begins to assume other, hitherto hidden complexities. These are borne out by a closer examination of the architecture of the hospital, the shape of its landscape and the records of its patrons and patients.

Dublin 1916: theatre of revolt

At Easter 1916, Dublin city centre was one of a series of sites throughout Ireland where a rebellion was staged against British rule. It was a strategic failure, swiftly crushed by superior British forces. The event, however, subsequently took a central role in the mythology of modern Ireland.

The first visual representations were of the conflict’s aftermath: photographic journeys through landscapes of ruin. From the distance of the camera, we see none of the pockmarks of shell bursts, nor the etchings of machine guns. Instead, traces of life in the city seem to have been swept aside by an unseen hand: the passing of millennia or a violent action of nature. Architecture alone has witnessed and recorded its presence. Amongst the fragments, the shell of the General Post Office (G.P.O.) in Sackville Street is one of the few buildings still wholly recognizable. The remnants of its classical form, portico and pediment, columns and entablature seem to transcend its prosaic modern functions and allude to something more ancient. The bewilderment of city’s inhabitants is also recorded. Dubliners have become inquisitive tourists in streets which hitherto were the locus of everyday life. They wander around aimlessly in a landscape as alien and picturesque as Pompeii. This shift in perception was captured by the Irish poet W.B. Yeats who hinted that Dublin, purged of modern commercialism had transcended its petty inadequacies to revive a slumbering heroic past.

‘I have met them at the close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses [.]’
All is changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.’

His comments were prescient. Initially unpopular, the republican leaders, executed by the British, slowly became recast as heroic martyrs. Similarly, the spaces where their heroism was forged became venerated. The G.P.O. and Sackville Street, however, already had a republican history. It was originally conceived in the eighteenth century as part of a series of magnificent urban spaces to provide an arena of spectacle and self-celebration for the colonial Anglo-Irish and their vision of a Protestant republic. O’Connell/Sackville Street became the temporal, geographical and mythical hinge upon which two different versions of Irish republicanism waxed and waned. Its recasting after independence as a space of Catholic Nationalism bore testimony to its consistency in providing a backdrop for the production of ritual and myth. In the 1920s and 30s, as the nascent country, beset with economic stagnation and political tensions, turned to spectacle as a salve for it social problems, O’Connell Street and the G.P.O. provided its most sacred sites. Within the introduction of new myths, however, individual as well as national identities were created and consolidated. The emerging identity of modern Ireland became inextricably linked with that of one ambitious politician. His uses of the G.P.O. in particular revealed a perceptive understanding of the political uses of classical architecture and urban space.