later debates.
Michael Sheehy’s Divided We Stand of 1955 started a debate about the partition of Ireland that is also still going on, and was echoed and expanded by Conor Cruise O’Brien in his States of Ireland of 1972. It was raised again from a very different point of view by A.T.Q. Stewart’s The Narrow Ground of 1977, a book that has had a deep influence behind the scenes on late twentieth-century Irish political thought. Both O’Brien and Stewart challenged anti-partitionist perspectives that had predominated in the twenty-six counties for three-quarters of a century after independence. These are exemplified here by Todd Andrews’s 1979 memoir and its sequel, among other things a behind-the-scenes account of how a single generation of post-revolutionary republican Catholic leaders under de Valera ran the country for several decades until they became a gerontocracy.
Philip Larkin famously wrote in his poem Annus Mirabilis that ‘Sexual Intercourse Began/ In Nineteen Sixty-Three/ (which was rather late for me) – /Between the end of the Chatterley ban/ And the Beatles’ first LP’. If Larkin had been Irish he might have instead bookended the arrival of sex as a topic for public argument as occurring between the publication of Edna O’Brien’s The Country Girls (1960) and John McGahern’s The Dark (1965). O’Brien owed and acknowledged a two-century-old literary debt to fellow East Clare writer Brian Merriman in The Country Girls. McGahern’s The Dark depicted child sexual abuse, the savage beating of young children and the troubled sexuality of a priest; themes that struggled for attention for a few more decades before official Ireland professed to be shocked and set up its tribunals of inquiry. The Dark was, of course, banned and its author was fired from his teaching job by the Catholic Church.
Many of the big Irish arguments of recent decades have, yet again, concerned unfinished business with the past. The gradual healing of the scars left on the Irish imagination by the catastrophe of 1845–47 made Cecil Woodham-Smith’s seminal The Great Hunger (1962) very well timed. By the 1960s, the Irish could read about the Famine relatively calmly and see it as being at least in part a natural disaster. Nell McCafferty’s excoriating exposé of Irish official attitudes toward sexuality, A Woman to Blame (1985), marked the beginning of a reckoning with the authoritarian consequences of Catholic public morality. Noel Browne’s autobiographical account of the Mother and Child crisis of 1951 was part of this new Zeitgeist. It had a huge impact in 1986, and was for years the record-holder for Irish book sales. Fintan O’Toole’s 1995 study of the conspiracy between the leaders of Fianna Fáil and the crooks who ran so much of the Irish beef export trade concluded prophetically that not only had the Catholic Church lost all credibility in Ireland, but also that this unhappy fate had been shared by Fianna Fáil. Four years later Mary Raftery and Eoin O’Sullivan’s Suffer the Little Children, in company with many other horrendous memoirs and studies, lifted the lid on the Irish Catholic Gulag for children and emphasised how authoritarianism and the lack of institutional accountability buttressed each other in the making of both clerical and political corruption scandals. The latter got its first major academic study in 2012 in the form of Elaine Byrne’s Political Corruption in Ireland, complementing recent work by O’Toole and many others.
Finally, a word on how this book was written. As social scientists, we have argued about the merits of these books and many others for many years. Our debates sent us back to reread the books examined in this volume and many others besides. Overlapping interests in the social and political condition of Ireland gave us common ground and grounds for argument. Each of the chapters that follows has been designated an individual author. Often we agreed but sometimes agreed to disagree. How else could a book by two authors about Irish arguments come into being?
2
Geoffrey Keating, The History of Ireland/Foras Feasa ar Éirinn (1634)
Geoffrey Keating was born in South Tipperary, south-west of Mallow, around 1580, of ‘Old English’ (Sean-Ghaill) or Anglo-Norman stock. He presumably grew up well aware of the near-genocide that had occurred in Desmond (South Munster) some decades before his birth, and knew also of the Nine Years War that was going on in Ulster in the last decade of Elizabeth’s reign. Not much is known of his personality or private life other than what is offered the reader by his written work. As Bernadette Cunningham remarks in her wonderful study The World of Geoffrey Keating, ‘The real Geoffrey Keating is more elusive than Shakespeare. No manuscript in his hand has been identified and none of his contemporaries mentions having met him.’1 He seems to have come from a comfortable landed family in the barony of Iffa and Offa and was educated at a local school of poetry specialising in Irish and Latin manuscripts. He studied theology in France (Rheims and Bordeaux) as was the custom for Catholic seminarians of that time and later was ordained to the priesthood. He returned to Ireland around 1610. He died no later than 1644.2 Writing extensively in Irish, his first work was Eochair-Sgiath an Aifrinn (The Key Shield of the Mass), a defence of the Catholic Mass. He became well known in the south of Ireland as a preacher, and eventually published the background material to his sermons as Trí Bior-Ghaoithe an Bháis (The Three Spears of Death) around 1631. However, he is best remembered for his four-volume history of Ireland, Foras Feasa ar Éirinn (Compendium of Knowledge about Ireland) published in 1634 (hereafter referred to as FFE). This work continues to be valued not only for being a compendium of Irish history, pseudo-history and mythology but also for being the first major historical work to be written in modern Irish. It is still quite accessible to anyone reasonably familiar with the modern version of the language and able to deal with the old spelling which was to be replaced eventually by a more streamlined official standard in the 1950s.3 Keating was evidently competent in Old and Middle Irish as well as Latin and his book became the major conduit by which versions of old tales and the common mediaeval version of the history of the Irish race was passed on to an increasingly literate and English-speaking country.
Inevitably, FFE was appropriated for political purposes unimagined by Keating in his historical era, and was to become material for unionist and nationalist self-justifications in the eighteenth century and after. Keating was commonly titled ‘the Irish Herodotus’. Herodotus was, of course, the early fifth-century Greek writer who was famous for his extraordinary blending of myth, unverifiable if entertaining anecdotes and genuine historical information. However, Herodotus was traditionally known to the Greeks not only as being the Father of History but also as the Father of Lies. It was the Greek historian’s fate to be contrasted tacitly with the evidence-based scientific approach represented by his successor Thucydides in his extraordinary eye-witness analysis of the Peloponnesian War (432–404 BC). This is not to suggest that Keating was the Irish equivalent of either Greek figure because he had a healthy scepticism about many of the accounts and fables which he presented to the reader combined with an unquestioning acceptance of writings which he held to be divine Revelation. To be fair, he tended to distance himself from the more outlandish anecdotes and narratives which the traditional lore offered him.
An ambivalent contemporary recommendation of Keating to the historian Luke Wadding by a Church of Ireland bishop (John Roche) displayed scepticism of Popish pleadings:
One Doctor Keating laboureth much in compiling Irish notes towards a history in Irish. The man is very studious, and yet I fear that if his work ever come to light it will need an amendment of ill-warranted narrations; he could help you to many curiosities of which you can make better use than himself. I have no interest in the man, for I never saw him, for he dwelleth in Munster.4
In the early seventeenth century, Catholicism in Ireland was a reluctantly tolerated religion, keeping its head down and defending itself in whispers rather than in bellicose sermons. Corish describes it accurately as becoming increasingly ‘hidden’ in the period between 1700 and 1800.
