Dublin in the 1760s was a city in the throes of rapid expansion, an emerging cultural hub within the British colonial structure. It was a place of booming theatres, pleasure gardens, and a laissez-faire approach to medicine, where charismatic individuals could easily make their mark. Yet, even by the flamboyant standards of Georgian Ireland, few could have predicted the arrival of Dr Achmet Borumborad.
Presenting himself as a Turkish physician fleeing political persecution in Istanbul, Borumborad swept into the Irish capital wrapped in a turban and an undeniable flair.
Within a few short years, this self-proclaimed Ottoman exile had thoroughly charmed the city’s elite. The press adored him; the Anglo-Irish aristocracy embraced him.
There was just one problem: Borumborad was no Ottoman, nor indeed was he, as commonly believed in the century that followed, an untraceable Patrick Joyce. He was in fact William Cairns, an enterprising Irishman from an Ulster-Scots family.
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My research, published recently in Irish Historical Studies, confirms the real identity of Borumborad and reveals the bitter rival who orchestrated his downfall.
The success of Cairns’s masquerade relied heavily on the cultural climate of 18th century Europe. The era was marked by Turquerie – a widespread fascination with Ottoman aesthetics and customs. With the Ottoman Empire’s military power waning, the West no longer viewed it as an existential threat, but rather as a source of exotic intrigue. When “Dr Achmet” arrived in Dublin, he simply stepped into a role that European high society was eager to applaud.
Cairns played this part to perfection. He mastered the art of high-society networking while simultaneously offering widely publicised free medical treatments to Dublin’s poor. This philanthropic streak made him a beloved public figure. His ambitions, however, extended far beyond a modest medical practice. By 1771, capitalising on the European craze for personal hygiene and exotic health treatments, he proposed the establishment of a grand Turkish bathhouse in Dublin.
Through sheer charisma and a talent for ingratiating himself with the right people, he convinced 50 of Ireland’s most respected doctors and surgeons to endorse his project publicly. The backing of the medical establishment was soon followed by the patronage of the aristocracy. Parliament granted generous subsidies for the construction of the bathhouse.
Borumborad was suddenly a made man. Throughout the 1770s, he was ubiquitous. He attended parliamentary debates as an honoured guest and threw spectacular balls that were the talk of the town.
Cairns rode a wave of unprecedented success for more than a decade. But the higher the pedestal, the harder the fall. For nearly two centuries, the popular historical narrative – championed by the 19th century memoirist Sir Jonah Barrington – held that Borumborad’s downfall began when a group of drunken parliamentarians accidentally fell into one of his cold-water pools during a lavish party, forcing them to walk home in humiliating Turkish robes.
It was also Barrington who invented the “Patrick Joyce” moniker for Borumborad – the fictitious local identity that misled historians for over a century. The archival evidence dismantles both of these myths. Alongside establishing the “Turk” as William Cairns once and for all, it shows that his downfall lacked any of Barrington’s slapstick comedy.
The architect of Borumborad’s destruction was not a clumsy politician, but a bitter rival across the Irish Sea: Bartholomew Dominiceti.
Dominiceti owned a Turkish bathhouse in Chelsea, London. Years earlier, before fully adopting his Ottoman persona, Cairns had lived there, where he closely studied Dominiceti’s baths. The rival knew exactly who “Achmet” was and scathingly condemned the Irish Parliament for funding a fraud who, as he put it, could pass as a Turk only “among fools”.
The revelation that the great Dr Achmet Borumborad was in fact William Cairns – a local man with a penchant for pharmacy and theatrical deception – sent shockwaves through Dublin. The aristocracy withdrew their patronage. Without parliamentary subsidies, Cairns was soon forced to close his bathhouse.
Yet the true casualty of the Borumborad affair was not Cairns’s business but the reputation of the Irish Parliament itself. The scandal became a potent political weapon. The affair was cited, even decades later, by English administrators as undeniable proof of the corruption of the Irish political establishment.
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As for Cairns, he simply slipped away from the limelight. Some records suggest he may eventually have relocated his family to the Bengal Presidency in India.
The enterprising spirit endured in the Cairns bloodline. His grandson, Hugh Cairns, rose to the pinnacle of British power and twice held the office of Lord High Chancellor. In 1878, he was created the 1st Earl of Cairns, a title that survives to this day. Another descendant became a prominent colonial administrator and later governor of Queensland, Australia, where the modern city of Cairns still bears his name.
Today, the tale of Dr Achmet Borumborad remains one of the most extraordinary and bizarre footnotes in European history. It is a story of a city captivated by the exotic and of an Ulsterman who proved that, with a good costume and a healthy dose of audacity, you can conquer the world – or at least, for a fleeting moment, Dublin.
Murat R Şiviloğlu, School of Languages, Literatures and Cultural Studies, Trinity College Dublin
