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A Soldier’s Song

Katie Taylor’s recent Olympic victory ensured that the Irish national anthem, Amhrán na bhFiann, got at least one notable airing this Summer. So notable that the word ‘amhrán’ began immediately to trend on Twitter across Europe, and beyond.

Written in 1907 by Peadar Kearney (music by Kearney and Patrick Heeney), the song predates the establishment of the Irish state, and was only gradually adopted as a replacement for God Save the King as late as 1926. The evolution of this song in the early 20th century Irish popular imagination mirrors the development of revolutionary republicanism in Ireland around that time.

Trinity’s Samuels Collection of printed ephemera affords a glimpse into the early life of this song, particularly in the form of handbills and popular street literature. Several of these make direct reference to the 1916 Easter Rising, during which the song first became popular.

Click on any of the thumbnails below to scroll through enlarged versions of these early incarnations of Ireland’s national anthem.

As the collection covers the period between 1914-1923, it does not contain any printing of the anthem as we know it today. Instead, it offers several variants of the song in its English original, and one early Irish version that differs from Liam Ó Rinn’s translation (1923), now the standard Irish version.

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1666 and all that …

The bound volume at shelfmark CC.n.76 in the Long Room contains a collection of almanacs for the year 1666.

Along with the Bible, almanacs were extremely popular in the 17th century and were the cornerstones of most personal libraries. They evolved from manuscript to the printed age via xylography – a wood engraving printed on vellum and updated annually by hand. Manuscript almanacs however were still produced beyond the Tudor period. Originally containing tables recording annual astronomical events and their impact on people’s lives, almanacs proved useful for astronomers, physicians and astrologers.  The subject of astrology – both natural and judicial – played a vital role in the content.

It was not until the mid-16th century that almanacs were issued for popular use and included predictions of a political or religious nature. Editions also included dates with the names of associated saints. Exaggerated predictions and use of thrilling language ensured annual sales of almanacs in England soared to 400,000 copies.

Adding a light-hearted slant, ‘Poor Robin’s almanacs’ not only included the Saint’s days in the almanac but found room to also add villains’ days.  Poor Robin (a pseudonym of William Winstanley) had a scatter-gun approach to content that was not unusual for the time in making wild predictions, albeit with tongue firmly in cheek. Observations for August include ‘Fair weather will now be as welcome to the farmer, as a fee to the lawyer’. September sees him display his astrological skills, informing the reader that ‘The bright planet Venus now rising in the buckle of Orion’s girdle, foreshews that towards the latter end of the moneth, men will begin to put toasts in drink.’ It will come as no surprise that his skills in predicting September’s Great Fire of London are lacking. The almanac first appeared in 1662 but was quickly suppressed as scandalous, only to reappear shortly afterwards boasting healthy sales of c. 7,000 per annum.

The public interest in predicting the future remains strong in the 21st century. Continued publication of almanacs such as ‘Old Moore’s’ and the fascination people still show with horoscopes and other aspects of astrology ensures bright prospects for almanac production as we enter the electronic age of publishing. Signs are on it!

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London Olympics, 1908

You may have noticed that the Olympics are being held in London this year …

To mark the occasion we are displaying an edition of the ‘Illustrated London News’ in the exhibition case in the foyer of the Berkeley Library, giving details of the dramatic finale to the Marathon in the 1908 Games, which were also held in London.

Unlike the four-year gap between modern Games, the London Olympics in 1908 came only two years after Athens. They were initially planned for Rome, but an untimely eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 1906 redirected Italian government funds elsewhere. Given the deluge of rain that occurred in London over the two-week period, Rome must have seemed even more appealing in hindsight.

In addition to sport and the weather, politics made its presence felt. Finland, at the time an autonomous Grand Duchy within the Russian Empire, marched flagless in the opening ceremony because Russia, through diplomatic channels, had insisted the Finns should march under a Russian banner. Irish contestants paraded under a Union Jack and were disgruntled that their efforts would add to the haul of medals for Great Britain.

Political decisions were not the only ones to see disfavour. The 400 metres final ended in a walkover for British athlete W. Halswelle as J.B. Taylor and W.C. Robbens, both from the USA, withdrew in protest over the disqualification of their compatriot J.C. Carpenter.The biggest controversy, however, was in the marathon. Lining up with 74 other contestants, Italy’s Dorando Pietri entered the Olympic Stadium in the lead and looking exhausted. On the final stretch he fell several times and was supported by confused officials. This led to his disqualification. Queen Alexandra was reportedly greatly moved by Dorando’s show of courage in completing the race, and awarded him a gold cup.

Here are the pages displayed in the case, plus a couple of bonus images.

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Spot the Difference

Every copy of a printed book is the same, isn’t it? Well, not exactly. Particularly in the hand-press era (from around 1455 to around 1830) small textual differences between different copies of the same edition were common, as corrections were made during the course of printing. Other variations might appear after printing had been completed; for example, two copies might be bound in a completely different way, or an owner might annotate his particular copy.

Some of the most obvious differences can appear in the treatment of illustrations, with some copies having hand-colouring added, and some left plain. The Department of Early Printed Books’ Fagel  Collection contains 3 separate copies of the Antwerp, 1644 edition of Rembert Doeden’s  beautiful herbal, the ‘Cruydt-boeck’, which demonstrate this point.

Fag. M.1.11 does not contain any hand-coloured illustrations; Fag. M.1.8 is partially hand-coloured; while every illustration in Fag. M.3.40 has been hand-coloured. The bindings vary as well.