Brendan Glacken on the work of the little-known Registry of Irish Historical Years.
A rather unseemly row has been going on in this newspaper - it is increasingly difficult to find a seemly row anywhere these days - between two professional historians over a review by one of a book by the other. Prof Tom Dunne has taken issue with Dr Kevin Whelan's review of his book, Rebellions: Memoir, Memory and 1798.
Other correspondents have joined the fray, among them a gentleman who quite without embarrassment recalls the time when, if you read a review in The Irish Times, "you were told what the book was about". Dear me: that was a long time ago. Reviewers today are a little more sophisticated, one should hope.
Prof Dunne claims that Dr Whelan's "assertion of unwarranted authority" in his particular historical period amounts almost to a claim of ownership of 1798, and it is on this ownership that the row hinges. It seems that Prof Dunne at the very least possesses squatting rights and is determined to exercise them. To put things mildly, which professional historians are not inclined to do, title is disputed.
Many people are possibly unaware that one can "own" a year of Irish history, let alone one as resonant as 1798. However, though not as well known as the Land Registry, the Companies Office or the National Archive, the Registry of Irish Historical Years performs a useful if under-appreciated service.
The registry occupies a rather forlorn 19th-century structure adjoining the Iveagh Gardens on Clonmel Street, where it is overlooked by the gleaming twin towers of the Equality Authority building. On the day I visited the registry, I thought to introduce a light quip about this apparent irony, but the registrar, Prof Cuthbert Featherstone, seemed not to understand, or indeed care. He did, however, inform me as to the building's year of construction - 1979 - and still available.
The professor's basement room had all the comforts of a warm tomb, and his heavy walnut desk was reassuringly free of modern office paraphernalia. All that lay on it were a vast ledger and a row of HB pencils. The only eccentric-looking item in the room, apart from a marmalade cat named Boolavogue, was an enormous hand-cranked paper shredder. The room as a whole had a look of purpose, depth and vague meaning, without any great sense of urgency. It seemed in the purest sense historical. Getting down to business, I asked the professor the central question of how exactly he allotted the important years of Irish history. He had just begun to explain how little interest our historians took in most years when a small plump female staggered into the office under the weight of a mountain of paper. "Who fears to speak?" inquired the professor archly. "Of '98" responded the exhausted woman, dropping the vast heap of paper on the floor before taking up a position beside Boolavogue.
In a move of surprising elegance for one so rotund, the professor dropped to the floor in the lotus position and began to playfully scatter about the manuscripts, theses, letters and documents. After a few moments, Boolavogue disdainfully rose to her feet, walked about the papers as if inspecting them for historical accuracy, and eventually urinated at some length on one of the heftier-looking theses.
My horror was quite lost on the professor and his aide. On the contrary, the latter, with a little shriek of delight, took note of the name on the cover page of the newly-defiled document. "He can fight it out with the rest of them," said the professor, who then proceeded to feed the remaining documents into his vast shredder. "Listen," he continued happily as the machine went to work, "to the sound of academic infighting."
When I recovered, the professor told me how he had been brought to the brink of madness over the years until allowed the funds to establish a small sub-office. Pulling up a piece of carpet, and a trapdoor underneath, he revealed with a small torch a flight of steps, down which we walked in silence until we came to a black curtain.
He eased it back a couple of inches to reveal a room packed with many thousands of documents, and in the middle a white-haired man weeping gently. "That's Frank," he explained . "He's here five years now. I'm not sure if he'll stick it to his 30th birthday." The professor dropped the curtain back and shone his torch on a small sign on it which simply read "1916".
On my way out, I picked up the years 1797 and 1799 for a song . There is currently little scholarly interest in them, but no doubt their time will come.