The Democratic Programme and the roots of the Republic

I was invited to speak at a conference on Law, Revolution and Sovereignty: Reflections on the Legal Legacy of the 1916 Rising & Declaration of Independence held by the School of Law in NUI Galway in 2016. I was a political historian among legal scholars so the paper had a legal scholarly name but the paper focused on the area of the values set out in the proclamation and their politics. In other words, the as the title on the programme puts it 1919 as root of title, a somewhat legal title for a paper with no law. It is based on a chapter in Foundation Stone: Notes Towards a Constitution for a 21st-Century Republic edited by Theo Dorgan.

The year 1919 is a pivotal date in Irish history and is effectively the constitutional foundation stone of the modern Irish state. Strictly speaking, the state dates itself from 1922 with the foundation of the Irish Free State under the terms of the Anglo-Irish Treaty but, I would suggest, outside of particular partisan circles, there is not really a great deal of affection for that particular date, which represents a bitterly contested compromise wrested from Britain.

1919 is not officially a part of the history of the actual state, then, but it has a semi-official status, in the sense that we still count our parliaments from the one elected at the 1918 general election, and the record of our Houses of the Oireachtas begins with the first public meeting of the First Dáil in the Mansion House on 21 January 1919. It’s not something we do with our governments but it is, I think, the only aspect of the pre-1922 independence movement that remains a part of the architecture of the modern state.

The First Dáil was a non-violent revolutionary act, which had its basis in a mandate from the Irish people. As Michael Laffan pointed out ‘in two quite different respects the meeting of the First Dáil was an act of great symbolic importance. Not only did it inaugurate the democratic and constitutional history of independent Ireland, but it also represented a synthesis of two different traditions within Irish nationalism’, by combining the military and political traditions within Irish nationalism and was ‘the product of co-operation between soldiers and politicians’ which had begun in the period following the 1916 Rising.[1] It also dramatically marked the end of a different political tradition in Ireland, with the Irish Parliamentary Party (IPP) having been effectively wiped out in the election which preceded it. In a sense then, it marks the continuity of the Irish parliamentary tradition, but with an entirely new cast of actors.

It’s not necessary to rehearse the origins of the First Dáil except to note a couple of things. For one thing, it is a direct consequence of the events of Easter Week and the re-organisation of the iteration of Sinn Féin that grew out of it and which was, at that point, more of a rallying cry than a political party in any conventional sense. Labour, which had been founded only a few years earlier, famously did not contest the election, so that the contest was a straight fight between Sinn Féin and the IPP, making it, in effect a referendum on separatism.

As Frank Gallagher put it, there had been no concealment of what Sinn Féin stood for.

  1. That it was for Ireland a Republic the people were being asked to vote
  2. that those elected would not attend the British Commons but would remain in Ireland to set up a National Assembly, and
  3. That the assembly would assert full sovereign independence.[2]

The Sinn Féin landslide which followed saw the party take 73 of 105 seats. That they would not take their seats in Westminster was a given, despite some cynical speculation to the contrary,[3] but there was a question mark over what Sinn Féin might do next. A parliament with Sinn Féin deputies only would be problematic with so many of them in prison, but the suggestion that they convene a National Assembly, including representatives of the Labour movement and other national organisations was also difficult because this would dilute the legitimacy conferred on any parliament by co-opting unelected members. If they were going to establish a representative government, they believed that their mandate was crucial.

Tom Johnson had told a newspaper that the party was ‘willing to act as a Left-wing within the National Assembly’ and the Labour leaders were reported to have been distinctly put out at not having been invited to take part in a broader assembly, but they said nothing in public and would be placated soon enough.[4]

On 7 January, some twenty nine of the Sinn Féin MPs attended a preliminary private meeting in the Oak Room of the Mansion House of the ‘Dáil Éireann’ as the new assembly had been called. They resolved ‘that we, the republican members of the Irish constituencies, in accordance with the National Will, are empowered to call together the Dáil Éireann and proceed accordingly.’ Which they duly did, assembling at the Round Room of the Mansion House at 3.30 pm on 21 January 1919, in a room packed with ticket holders and the international press.

After a prayer read in Irish by Fr Flanagan there was a roll call of all those elected in 1918, with the refrain fé ghlas ag Gallaibh for each Sinn Féin member in prison on the day, while the Unionist and Home Rule MPs were ‘as láthair’, the Bunreacht Dala Éireann was read, in Irish only, and adopted. The Constitution of Dáil Éireann consisted of five articles and was a straightforward framework for organising the work of parliament and its ministers. Article 1 stated that ‘all legislative powers shall be vested in Dáil Éireann, composed of Deputies, elected by the Irish people form the existing Irish parliamentary constituencies’; article 2 outlined the composition of the ministry of the Dáil and the election of the president, article 3 referred to the chairman of the Dáil, Article 4 related to money and article 5 stated that the constitution was provisions and liable to alteration upon seven days’ written notice. An English language version was provided to the press on the day,[5] and later adopted when the Dáil met again on 1 April when much of the business of the day was amendments to the standing orders and to the constitution of Dáil Éireann, including a motion moved by Eamonn de Valera and seconded by Countess Markievicz that ‘Deputies shall be referred to by the names of their constituencies and that (g) No Deputy shall make a personal charge against another nor use offensive remarks about another,’[6] thus adding guidelines for civility to proceedings which had been remarkably civil up to this point and, more curiously, adopting the Westminster custom regarding names.

Brian Farrell has observed that the presentation of the constitution was ‘almost dismissive’ and did it less than justice, considering it was the ‘first fundamental law of modern Ireland [and] was to remain the basis of the Irish state until the adoption of the Irish Free State constitution in 1922.’[7] Certainly, the emphasis in the rhetoric of the proceedings of the opening session of the First Dáil is on the parliament, and the people who elected it, rather than on any government arising out of it and any structures it might have. It is interesting though, that when the Dáil met for the third time, this time with de Valera present for the first time, that the focus shifted to the structures of government and rules of the house.

But after the roll and the rules, the meeting it had before it three items of business: a declaration of independence, a message to the free nations of the world calling for recognition of Ireland’s independence and, finally, the adoption of the Democratic Programme.

The message to the free nations of the world, which was read in Irish, English and French, was an appeal for recognition of Ireland’s national status and her right to its vindication at the Paris Peace Congress but the other two documents are of more lasting relevance and are what I’m going to focus on here.

Recalling the meeting of the First Dáil some decades later in his book The Four Glorious Years, Frank Gallagher noted that ‘the Declaration of Independence, made by Dáil Éireann’ that day ‘is historically the most important document in the archives of modern Ireland.’[8]

The Declaration of Independence is just 400 words long and effectively updates the Proclamation in the context of the new national parliament.

The Declaration of Independence can be boiled down to the idea that where the ‘Irish republic was proclaimed on Easter Monday by the Irish Republican Army acting on behalf of the people,’ now the people had declared its allegiance to the Republic through a democratic vote. It roots the Republic in centuries of physical force, right up to 1916, but confirms its legitimacy with its mandate.

Frank Gallagher may have a case in saying that this Declaration of Independence is historically the most important document of modern Ireland but it has never had that status. It is largely unremarked on by scholars and, I think, almost entirely absent from the public consciousness. I doubt many people could quote a single sentence and a very quick Google search mostly brought up pages relating to the 1916 Proclamation. Perhaps it is partly a consequence of a the more formal, legalistic language of the Declaration – ‘and whereas, and whereas’ – in comparison with the more elegant or memorable Proclamation. It might be facile to suggest that the visionaries of the revolution had been executed after the Rising but nevertheless, the 1919 document lacks something of its predecessor. Looking at Declarations of Independence more broadly, we can see that it lacks the philosophical qualities that have made the American declaration stand the test of time in its public consciousness. There are no self-evident truths or rights, just an national polity albeit one ‘based upon the people’s will with equal right and equal opportunity for every citizen.’

But if the vision of the Republic is lacking from the Declaration of Independence, it can be found in the third document adopted by the Dáil on that first day, the Democratic Programme. In fewer than 600 words in the English language version, the programme laid out the principles on which the Irish Republic was to be built – those of Liberty, Equality and Justice for all – where every man and woman would give their allegiance to ‘the commonwealth’ and, in return, each citizen would receive an adequate share of the produce of the nation’s labour and where the government’s first duty would be to ensure the physical, mental and spiritual well-being of every child. The programme was not framed as a constitution, as such, but it did outline the basic ethos and civic framework on which the new state would be built. Significantly, however, the word ‘state’ is entirely absent from the text. In contrast, the 1922 Free State constitution and its 1937 successor, Bunreacht na hÉireann, both focused on drawing up the state’s legal and political infrastructure, but the notion of citizenship, and the rights and responsibilities it conferred, was wholly absent, an absence which has been reflected in the political culture of the state.

In recent years, particularly in the context of the post-2008 economic crisis and the political re-evaluation which followed (such as it was), this absence of a popular civic republicanism has been highlighted as a factor contributing to Ireland’s national malaise by various commentators. This view has much to recommend it although there is rarely (if ever) any acknowledgement of the voices which had previously called for the state to promote an active citizenship in the past but who were readily ignored by those who held political power almost from the outset. The Democratic Programme adopted by Dáil Éireann in January 1919 is probably the most pertinent example, a document which not only remains relevant today but which is significantly more progressive than anything which followed in the century since it was put before Ireland’s first independent parliament.

Before looking at the document itself though, it’s worth looking at the context in which it was written.

The genesis behind the programme was largely political and done with an eye on an international audience. The Socialist International was meeting in Berne on 3 February and two Labour men, Tom Johnson, treasurer of the Irish Labour Party and Trade Union Congress and Cathal O’Shannon, an official in the Irish Transport and General Workers Union, were planning to attend to lobby for support for Irish self-determination. Anything that which might lend the progressive or radical credentials to the new government would surely ‘strengthen the delegation’s hand in Switzerland’[9] would be advantageous. Johnson was approached to write the Dáil’s social programme, something which might serve as a consolation to Labour which had stood aside in the 1918 election and again when the membership of the assembly was not widened. There was also another consideration, though, since there were few others capable of doing the job.

Part of the problem was that ‘Sinn Féin’, that broad alliance of disparate political beliefs, had not given the issue a great deal of thought. Many of those who had been inclined towards political thinking had died in 1916 and their successors seemed, for the most part, of a less philosophical bent. Theirs was an attitude summed up in a story retold by Seán O’Faolain, about the English journalist who

Soon after 1916, plied the general secretary of Sinn Féin, Paudeen O’Keeffe, with so many insistent questions on the lines of ‘What are the practical aims of this movement?’ and got so many unsatisfactory answers that, in the end, he said in some slight exasperation: ‘Mr O’Keeffe, would you at least say what exactly you yourself want?’

At this O’Keeffe, a small, dark fiercely moustached Celt, banged his desk and roared: ‘Vingeance, bejasus!’[10]

Similarly, in his history of Sinn Féin between 1916 and 1923, Michael Laffan has observed that Sinn Féin ‘did not engage in the sort of intellectual debates which preoccupied many of their counterparts in other countries.’[11] It would be wrong to suggest that these debates did not take place at all, but within Sinn Féin people who thought in a practical way about the nature of Irish society after the revolution, people such as Liam Mellows, were in the minority and tended to be on the left. For the rest, Connolly’s idea of ‘painting the post boxes green’ did not seem too objectionable. As such another factor in Johnson being asked to write the programme was because he could and there was no one in Sinn Féin who would be equal to the job.

In early January, Johnson was approached to write the Dáil social and economic document. Johnson began his draft by quoting form the 1916 Proclamation and then from Pearse’s last major pamphlet, the Sovereign People (published 31 March 1916), in a deliberate attempt ‘to link Easter Week with the Dáil’s need for a social policy’ as well as to illustrate the influence which James Connolly had had on Pearse’s thought in later years.[12]

In Pearse’s words, the passage asserted that ‘no private right to property is good against the public right of the nation…whenever forms of productive wealth are wrongfully used…the Nation shall resume possession without compensation.’ The draft continued in a similar vein, asserting that ‘the Irish Republic shall always count wealth and prosperity by the measure of health and happiness of its citizens’ and as such, the first duty of the government of the republic would be to make provision for the physical, mental and spiritual well-being of the children. It set out how natural resources would be exploited for the good of the people and how where ‘productive wealth’ was ‘wrongfully used or withheld from use to the detriment of the Republic, there the nation shall resume possession without compensation.’ Having dealt with trade and the noting that ‘it shall be the purpose of the government to encourage the organisation of the people into trade unions and co-operative societies with a view to the control and administration of the industries by the workers engaged in the industries. Finally, it concluded that ‘the Republic will aim at the elimination of the class in society which lives upon the wealth produced by the workers of the nation but gives no useful service in return, and in the process of accomplishment will bring freedom to all who have hitherto been caught in the toils of economic servitude.’[13]

Johnson’s document, however, was far from the last word since, as Aindrias Ó Cathasaigh has noted, ‘the republicans were not minded to let the programme through on the nod.’[14] Michael Collins called a meeting of leading members of the IRB for the eve of the inaugural session of the first Dáil to consider the Democratic Programme. According to P.S. O’Hegarty, one of those present:

The ‘Democratic Programme’ gave rise to a lively debate, the preponderance of opinion being against it. It was urged that this declaration was in fact ultra vires for the Dáil, whose one and only business was to get the English out of Ireland, and that all internal and arguable questions like this should be left over until the English had actually been got out, and, on a vote, that view was upheld. Collins then said that he would suppress the ‘democratic programme’, and he did so; but, next morning, the others refused to go one without a democratic programme and the draft was handed to Seán T. O’Kelly, who finally produced what was put before the Dáil.[15]

O’Kelly’s recollection differed somewhat but as Ó Cathasaigh observes, ‘his description of how the draft was received rings true’:

a long and sometimes heated discussion. There were ideas and statements which some of the committee would not accept. The discussion lasted until well after eleven o’clock… Eventually the meeting broke up without any agreement. All notes and suggestions were thrown at me because I was chairman. I was told to draft the document myself.[16]

As Ó Cathasaigh observes, ‘O’Shannon thought that the Sinn Féin executive, with O’Kelly’s own support, overruled the IRB objections,’[17] and O’Kelly was given the task of rendering Johnson’s original document into something which the IRB would find less objectionable. O’Kelly worked through the night, cutting extensively, editing other sections but adding little of his own. He removed some of the more radical elements in the text including the elimination of the capitalist class and the confiscation of misused property and rephrasing other sections. Years later, O’Shannon went compared original draft and the final version and found that around half of the half of the Johnson draft was omitted.[18] Once O’Kelly had finished his revisions, there was a rush to have the final version typed up for the opening of the Dáil. With no time left to write an Irish translation, Piaras Béaslaí was left to do an impromptu translation, pretending to read from the English text.[19] As O’Kelly later recalled, ‘the draft of the Democratic Programme was not submitted to any committee or indeed to any individual except my wife,’[20] and Cathal O’Shannon noted that it was not until he and Johnson listened to the programme being read to the Dáil that they realised that it had been amended. But if a deal of the explicit socialism of the first draft was excised, it was not wholly eliminated and the end result did not trouble Johnson who wept with emotion as it was read out.[21]

I will just quote a couple of excerpts here:

we declare that the Nation’s sovereignty extends not only to all men and women of the Nation, but to all its material possessions, the Nation’s soil and all its resources, all the wealth and all the wealth-producing processes within the Nation, and with him we reaffirm that all right to private property must be subordinated to the public right and welfare.

We declare that we desire our country to be ruled in accordance with the principles of Liberty, Equality, and Justice for all, which alone can secure permanence of Government in the willing adhesion of the people.

We affirm the duty of every man and woman to give allegiance and service to the Commonwealth, and declare it is the duty of the Nation to assure that every citizen shall have opportunity to spend his or her strength and faculties in the service of the people. In return for willing service, we, in the name of the Republic, declare the right of every citizen to an adequate share of the produce of the Nation’s labour.

It shall be the first duty of the Government of the Republic to make provision for the physical, mental and spiritual well-being of the children, to secure that no child shall suffer hunger or cold from lack of food, clothing, or shelter, but that all shall be provided with the means and facilities requisite for their proper education and training as Citizens of a Free and Gaelic Ireland.

Even watered down, the Democratic Programme is a powerful declaration of the rights and duties of citizens and what was meant by a Republic, outside the instruments of statehood or government. The problem, however, at the time and since, however, lies in the mens rea. [joke] The Democratic Programme was adopted by the First Dáil, few members of that Dáil, if any, seem to have taken it particularly seriously and the debate has raged for decades over whether the Programme was genuine or merely opportunism.

Apart from the IRB’s opposition not merely to its content but to its being read at all. In later years, there were others on the Cumann na nGaedhael/Fine Gael side who were openly contemptuous of it. Asked about the programme fifty years later, in 1969, Ernest Blythe recalled ‘no, I never found anybody who took the slightest interest in it. The Labour Party secured the adoption of it. I don’t think anybody, practically speaking, bothered with it afterwards. It was regarded as some sort of hoisting of a flag. It wasn’t regarded as significant.’[22] Similarly, Piaras Beaslaí, who was on the Dáil preparatory committee (and who ‘read’ the Irish version to the assembly) later wrote that it was doubtful whether a majority of the members would have voted for it, without amendment, had there been any immediate prospect of putting it into force.’[23] Indeed, the first suggestions that this case the case was as early as April 1919.

On 4 April a motion pledging the assembly to ‘fair and full redistribution of vacant lands and ranches … among the uneconomic holders and landless men’ was withdrawn with the land question being given over to consideration by a committee, suggesting that any practical efforts to put the programme into practice might be unwanted.[24] The following week, when answering a question about the social policy of the government, de Valera, the president of the republic who had been in Jail when the Programme had been adopted, explained that ‘it was quite clear that the democratic programme…contemplated a situation somewhat different from that in which they actually found themselves. They had the occupation of the foreigner in their country, and while that state of affairs existed, they could not put fully into force their desires and their wishes as far as their social programme was concerned.’ Furthermore, adverting to his lack of involvement in the process ‘He had never made any promise to Labour, because, while the enemy was within their gates, the immediate question was to get possession of their country.’[25]

After 1922, when the British enemy had moved beyond the gates, the division on the Democratic Programme became more apparent. Cumman na nGaedhael’s hostility towards it was clearly evident during the debates on the 1922 constitution. Drawing on the democratic programme, Labour deputies endeavoured to have economic rights to things such as food, shelter and education in the constitution, but Kevin O’Higgins was adamant that constitutions should include only ‘fundamental rights.’ There would be no references to citizens or their rights or duties and when the debate moved to natural resources, O’Higgins accused Labour of trying to put communist doctrine into the Free State Constitution. When Tom Johnson countered that what he was suggesting was in the democratic programme, O’Higgins merely replied ‘that’s not a constitution.’

In effect, Cumman na nGaedheal, and later Fine Gael, opposed the Democratic Programme, Labour and some left republicans supported it and then there were other republicans such as Liam Lynch or de Valera, who paid it lip service, expressing the view that the democratic programme was fine, but not yet. When Fianna Fáil was founded in 1926, it listed among its seven objectives ‘to carry out the democratic programme of the First Dáil’ an aim only removed from its corú very recently.

The programme was never entirely forgotten but it enjoyed something of a revival in the mid-late 1960s when its radicalism chimed with the spirit of social and political rebellion and the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Rising encouraged a return to the foundations of the modern state. Writing in 1969, the economist Patrick Lynch, then lecturing in UCD, noted the changes in attitude which had begun in recent years ‘when young people saw that there are individuals in all three political parties who appear to have more in common with themselves and with the Democratic Programme… than with the policies of our political parties at the last general election.’[26] Not that its appeal was limited to the new generation. Seán Lemass referred to it in several speeches during his time as Taoiseach and privately, at least, he had expressed a desire to restate its social objectives. In 1964, Michael McInerney, the Irish Times political correspondent suggested that Lemass planned to use the commemorations of the 1916 rising to ‘declare in 1966 terms the national aims as defined in the 1919 programme’ and when the Taoiseach established an All Party Committee on the Constitution that year it looked as though that might happen but ultimately, it was not to be.

The celebrations surrounding 1966 emphasised the Proclamation of the Republic not its successor from the First Dáil and by its anniversary in 1969 it merely highlighted the state’s sins of omission. When members of the Oireachtas and distinguished guests met to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the First Dáil’s inaugural meeting, President de Valera’s address had been interrupted with a shout. ‘The programme of the old Dáil has never been implemented. This is a mockery.’ Continuing by noting a hunger-strike in Mountjoy by a housing activist who had been imprisoned after he refused to vacate the house in Mountjoy Square where he had been squatting in with his wife and children. The interruption came not from some young hot-head but an older man in the distinguished visitors section, Joseph Clarke, a veteran of 1916, who’d fought on Mount Street bridge under de Valera’s command and the usher-in-charge of the first Dáil.

Once Lemass had retired from politics, the document’s status diminished within Fianna Fáil and became almost exclusively identified with the left where it continued to be seen as founding document of a republic that had failed to be. Beyond the republican movement (where it was regarded highly in the official and provisional wings), the left and the Labour Party especially, it fell out favour. It was generally ignored, and when it was not ignored it was derided. Writing in January 1989, Mary Holland noted how ‘the political parties achieved a new and rather depressing consensus…when they agreed, unanimously, not to commemorate the 70th anniversary of the first Dáil’ and a suggestion by a Labour senator that the upper house mark the event – highlighting the importance of the democratic programme – prompted the NUI senator, Professor John A. Murphy to declare it ‘pious codswallop’, ‘a piece of eyewash. It was mere window dressing.’ Five years later, however, the occasion was, at least marked by RTÉ in a series of Thomas Davis lectures, published as an collection edited by Brian Farrell, which emphasised the importance of 1919 as the bedrock of the modern Irish state.

Politically, no one in recent times has identified so strongly with it as President Michael D. Higgins who probably articulated his point best in his valedictory speech to Dáil Éireann in January 2011. On that occasion he spoke of his belief that ‘no real republic had been created in Ireland’ and pointed to the lack of citizenship, not only in Ireland but in the European Union as a whole, and emphasised the need to rebuild an entirely different society one based on ‘political participation, administrative fairness and the equality of the right to community’ and which included ‘a floor of citizenship below which people would not be allowed to fall.’ The picture he painted of a ‘radical inclusive republic’ was compelling, but, as Deputy Higgins might lament, it was not new. The themes he set out in this speech, in effect a reiteration of the Democratic Programme, would be at the heart of his presidential campaign. He returned to them in his address following his inauguration as President of Ireland. President Higgins quoted the sean focal ‘ní neart go cur le chéile’ translating it in terms Tom Johnson would have understood: ‘our strength lies in our common weal, our social solidarity.’

At a recent series of history lectures on independent Ireland, I was intrigued to see historian after historian begin their talks with reference to the Democratic Programme, although I think, perhaps this is largely because it is so useful as a benchmark for what was left undone, and serves largely as reminder of the new state’s sins of omission. It has no standing in Irish law beyond a moral one and so much of the debate around its status is based not only on what was meant by its authors but also by those who adopted it.

The Democratic Programme as adopted by the First Dáil represents the high point of the Republic, in a sense, as it was the last time that the citizens of the Republic had precedence as from 1922, the State takes precedence.


[1] Laffan, ‘Sinn Féin from Dual Monarchy’ in Farrell ed p.15

[2] David Hogan, The Four Glorious Years p.51

[3] Mitchell, p.5

[4] Mitchell pp.9-10

[5] Farrell, ‘The First Dáil and its Constitutional Documents’ in Farrell ed p.

[6] DED 1 April 1919

[7] Farrell in Farrell ed p.68

[8] Hogan, The four glorious years p.56

[9] Aindrias O Cathasaigh, ‘Getting with the programme. Labour, the Dáil and the Democratic Programme of 1919’ Red Banner March 2009. p.1. This is the most thorough examination of the drafting of the document.

[10]    Seán O’Faolain, Vive Moi! An autobiography (London, 1965) pp.145-6

[11]  Laffan, Resurrection of Ireland p.214

[12] Irish Times 31 January 1944; interview with Cathal O’Shannon featured in ‘The First Dáil’, first broadcast by Raidió Éireann 19 January 1969

[13] The text of Johnson’s original document was first published on 1 February 1944 in the Irish Times

[14] Ó Cathasaigh, ‘Get with the programme’ p.3

[15] P.S. O’Hegarty, A history of Ireland under the union (London, 1952) p.727 quoted in Ó Cathasaigh, ‘Get with the programme’ p.3

[16] ‘The drafting of the programme’ Irish Press 27 July 1961 quoted in Ó Cathasaigh, ‘Get with the programme’ p.3

[17] Ibid. It is worth bearing in mind, that O’Shannon had himself been a member of the IRB. See also Arthur Mitchell, Revolutionary Government in Ireland (Dublin, 1995) p.15

[18] Irish Times 1 February 1944

[19] Ó Cathasaigh, ‘Get with the programme’ p.4

[20] ibid

[21] Irish Times 2 Febraury 1944; J.A. Gaughan, Thomas Johnson p.157

[22] ‘An Chéad Dáil 1919,’ first broadcast on Teilifís Éireann 20 January 1969

[23] Beaslaí, Michael Collins and the making of a new Ireland Volume 1 (Dublin, 1926) p.259 quoted in O Cathasaigh ‘Getting with the programme’ p.4

[24] DEC 4 April 1919

[25] DED 11 April 1919

[26] Irish Times 21 January 1969

Marie Kando and the Shoe Boxes of Doom


Probably like a lot of people, around new year, I am in the habit of doing a tidy. Ideally, I do it before 1 January, but sometimes it takes longer, and a lot of that is because of reading. A certain amount of the annual tidy involves filing or shredding bills, receipts, prescriptions and the usual detritus of daily life that never quite gets put away, but much of it is the things that I meant to read but never got around to, the paper equivalent of ten thousand tabs open on a browser. The annual purge always makes me feel better – lighter and less encumbered – and if I don’t manage to do it, I carry everything over for another year and I feel inadequate, or in more dramatic moments, wholly useless. There were several years where my kitchen table, which was always a key part of this process, remained unexcavated, every inch of which was piled high in papers and books for a book I was writing. Thinking back, the only reason the table was ever cleared in the end was that my landlord was selling up and I had to move house, and eviction proved successful where all other inducements had not.

This year, Marie Kondo is helping to spur my efforts. I know people who have found her books very useful, but I haven’t read her, and rely on a vague idea of her method and her new show on Netflix. I have filled a few bags for the bin and the charity shop with my rather half-assed use of the method. My clothes are neatly folded and filed in drawers. I’ll be honest, few items spark joy, but I can hold a pair of decent 60 denier opaque tights and be grateful that they have toes and no ladders enough to be able to wear them out of the house. Perhaps the joyless nature of hosiery is factored into in the books but there’s always the William Morris advice about keeping things that are useful, so all goes well, except for one thing.

It’s the books. Or rather, it’s the books and the paper. So much fucking paper. It’s overwhelming and I feel my chest tighten thinking of it. I started my doctoral studies over 20 years ago. Few people were using laptops and there was a lecturer in my department who recommended what he called the shoe-box method, where the researcher would take notes on index cards and keep them in a shoe box so that they could be filed according to topic. It was terrible advice but I did this and I still have the cards. I completed the PhD, I wrote a book which was partly based on the research but I can’t get rid of the index cards, or, indeed, the other notes. The same applies to everything I’ve done since. Every article, chapter, book, you name it, that I have written, I still have the notes. Mostly they’re in folders, some scrawled notes in pencil from various archives and research libraries and then, as time went on, printed up pages of notes that I typed up on laptops. There are also photocopies, print outs of photographs I took in archives, and various other odds and sods. There are scores of reams of notes for everything I ever wrote and I can’t move for them. There are also scores of reams of notes for everything I never wrote. All the articles I planned to write but I never found the time; the books that almost were (but thankfully were not), and the other books that have not yet been. There is just so much stuff. I can’t throw it out, although I desperately want to. It doesn’t spark joy, it makes me anxious and angst-ridden but it is the result of countless hours spent over years of sitting in various libraries and archives, including one archive which had an atmospheric thermometer permanently at “danger of hypothermia”. I can’t get rid of the material I’ve used but neither can I dispose of the work I have neglected to write, my books of omission.

It’s a problem. It’s a problem lots of people have. Of course, some people are better organised, and others are better able to knock out stuff and move on to the next thing. There are also people who find that after years of collecting material on a subject, that they can decide that they’ll never get around to it and put crates of papers in the green bin, but I think that must happen once in a blue moon. I’m sure it’s hugely cathartic but I couldn’t, or at least, I can’t right now, but I am reluctant to be fatalistic. As the man said, what is to be done?   It occurred to me that there could be a support group for the similarly afflicted. It might work like a study group but really be more like a group therapy session where each week, scholars would bring their research notes for a long shelved project and discuss them, and at the end, they would have to commit to writing something – even only a thousand words – or shred them in a ceremony in front of their peers. There’s also the more generous approach of giving the research to someone else who might use them. Keeping material in circulation is admirable but not everyone is capable of committing to intellectual surrogacy. But if you sit on something long enough it doesn’t matter because someone else will find it themselves anyway, and your generosity will serves no purpose other than to your self-satisfaction.

Today is the feast of the epiphany and I suppose I wondered if I put some of this in writing would I reach my own. I haven’t, of course, but if the files and boxes are still where they were this morning, they are at least stacked a little straighter.



On Tuesday 4 December, I’ll be taking part in the History Ireland Hedge School, From Ballots to Bullets at the NLI National Photographic Archive in Temple Bar with Brian Hanley and Liz Gillis.

You can book your free ticket here.  DtFrSYVWkAEC4M9.jpg-large

“We wouldn’t have a health or education system to begin with…”

Some hastily written thoughts on education from 2017… 

Last year a a newspaper published a column in favour of continued state support for church-run institutions, by a lecturer in religion in a teacher training college. The column was headline ‘Church and  casually asserts that ‘as for the contention that there should be no religious involvement in the operations of State services, we wouldn’t have a health service or an education system to begin with if this contention was State policy.’

This idea is rolled out with some regularity, often in debates in public houses, but is it true?

In terms of education the answer is mostly no, at least for the last two-hundred years. Looking back to the nineteenth century and later into the twentieth century, there were notable efforts to improve education provision in Ireland which, more often than not, were fought by the Catholic Church.

While teaching orders such as the Christian Brothers or the Sisters of Charity did indeed run schools, most Irish people were educated by lay teachers. The primary education system today is based on the one set up under British rule in 1831. Established with the intention that schools be non-denominational and were prohibited from teaching religion, the various churches in Ireland, Catholic and Protestant, worked to make sure that this system was inoperable. By the turn of the century almost all primary schools were run under the management of the local parish priest or rector, although staffed by lay teachers who were paid using state funds.

It should be borne in mind that the vast majority of teachers in Catholic schools during the 1800s were untrained and by 1900 barely 50 per cent of national teachers were trained. This was because there was a prohibition on employing teachers who had attended the non-denominational training college in Marlborough Street. In the eyes of the Catholic church, it was preferable to have untrained teachers rather than ones who had been trained in a secular environment. It was only when Catholic run teacher training colleges were established during the 1870s that children attending Catholic schools had the benefit of qualified teachers.

Similarly, the Catholic Church opposed the setting up of University Colleges Cork and Galway (now NUI Galway and University College Cork) along with Queens University Belfast because they were non-denominational. The Catholic Church wanted a Catholic university and Catholics were instructed not to attend these ‘Godless colleges’, lest they pick up any secularism there. Of course, more recently, the Archbishop of Dublin, John Charles McQuaid instructed Catholics in his diocese of the necessity for Catholics to be given a ‘fully Catholic education’ and forbade them from attending Trinity College Dublin, under pain of mortal sin.

Every bit of control which the Catholic Church secured over education was jealously guarded. For decades, the parish priests who managed schools could fire teachers with immediate effect for no reason. Efforts by the Irish National Teachers Organisation to get security of tenure for its members were highly controversial and resulted in the INTO being banned in half the Catholic schools in Ireland at the turn of the 1900s. Again and again, the teachers were accused of trying to push the Church out of education. Notably, all the Church provided here was control – the labour came from the lay teachers the money which paid their wages from the state.

This all pre-dated the creation of the Free State in 1922 and continued thereafter. Contrary to popular liberal opinion, a Catholic curtain did not descend on the south after partition, the existing situation merely ossified. The largely Catholic and very conservative Cumann na nGaedheal government had no interest in interfering with the role played by the Church in running schools and when it came to office, the Fianna Fáil government did likewise.

The state did have a problem, however. It was supposed to pay three-quarters of the costs of running the schools while local contributions would cover the rest. This was often short in economically deprived areas, which meant that in many working class areas of Dublin especially, the schools were cold and squalid. Health officers reported that the insanitary conditions broke health regulations and were likely to cause serious harm to children’s health, but asked again and again by successive governments to pay the money needed for the upkeep of schools, the Catholic church refused. When the INTO suggested that the solution would be for the government to pay the full amount, it was accused of trying to push the Church out of its natural sphere and introduce state socialism. Its attitude towards buildings showed a Church which wanted all of the power without any of the responsibility, and displayed a callous disregard for the welfare of the children and the people who taught them. The issue remained a problem well into the 1950s. The Church protected its role more zealously, in the context of the cold war but also watching the growth of the welfare state in the UK. After it had managed to dispense with the Mother and Child scheme, it continued to fight against full state funding of schools. As Cardinal D’Alton observed it ‘it has long been the considered view of the Bishops that if the building, maintenance, heating and cleaning of the schools were taken out of the hands of the managers, the ownership of the schools by the Church and the right of the managers to appoint and dismiss teachers would also soon be lost.’

For the last two-hundred years, in primary education especially, the state has provided the vast majority of funds and personnel for education. To suggest that we would not have an education system without the work of the Catholic Church is false. Rather, what the Church has tended to do was to demand control of a system but using state funds to run it, wielding power but without living up to its responsibilities.

The British Labour movement and the 1913 lockout.

Text of a talk at an event organised by Unite the Union in 2013.  

At noon on Monday, 1 September 1913, the 46th annual Trades Union Congress opened at the Milton Hall in Manchester. The first session began with messages of regret, as was customary but before the president could proceed further AE Chandler from the Railway Clerks demanded to know what Congress planned to do in connection with events in Dublin over the previous two days where, reports had it, four hundred people had been injured at the hands of the police and one man killed. It was, in the words of the Miners’ Robert Smillie, a massacre.

The trouble had begun in Dublin a couple of weeks earlier when on 15 August, William Martin Murphy issued an ultimatum to Irish Independent dispatch staff to leave the ITGWU or be sacked. Forty were let go and two days later, 200 tramwaymen were added to their number. The dispute escalated when the Dublin tramwaymen from the ITGWU left their trams on the morning of the Horse Show on 26 August and in the days that followed, officials of the Dublin Trades Council were arrested and there were violent scenes in the city. These reached their height with the infamous police baton charge on Sackville Street on what became known as ‘Bloody Sunday.’

Certainly, the delegates at the TUC in Manchester were appalled by events across the water. Many of them had strong connections with Ireland but they were keen that their disgust at events was not viewed as a nationalist reaction: such violence by police during strikes was far too familiar. Almost exactly two years earlier in Liverpool, 350 people were hospitalized after an attack on a mass strike meeting by the police and troops, an attack referred to as Bloody Sunday, and two days later, troops shot and killed two workers in another incident. Events in Dublin had nothing to do with nationalism, they was an act of class war.

But if delegates were united in their condemnation of the police and the authorities, they differed among themselves in their attitude towards the dispute. The British movement was divided between cautious officials who instinctively supported the workers while opposing Larkin’s militancy and those who took a more syndicalist view similar to Larkin. The division was deep but unequal with caution predominating at the highest levels of the trade union leadership.

The less-than wholehearted support for the strike, or more accurately, the strike leaders was clear as James Sexton moved the original motion which condemned the banning of the meeting on Sunday and the ‘brutal manner in which the citizens of [Dublin] were treated.’ As Sexton acknowledged

It is well known, I think, to this congress, or to a good many members of the congress, that I have no reason to love some of the men who are imprisoned in connection with this question but this is a matter which rises above petty personalities altogether. It may be said that two blacks do not make one white; but the blackness of James Connolly, black as it may be – – I do not want to say a word against anyone of them, but I say that the blackness of JC and Larkin – if it be black – is white compared with the hellish blackness of men like Sir Edward Carson and some of his followers.

As Larkin’s old boss in the NUDL there was no love lost between the two but their clash was not merely personal. Sexton was inclined to be cautious as a trade union leader, Larkin less so. Ben Tillett of the London Dockers remarked that Sexton had been mild – he called for Larkin’s release from prison to be included in the motion too – while CB Stanton of the Miners’ Federation criticized the movement for becoming too cautious. ‘We have grown too smug, too respectable. There are too many of our people in the House of Commons, and too many JPs in our midst. There are too many afraid to dare and do.’

Congress voted to send a delegation to Dublin to inquire into events and their party of six men arrived in Dublin on Wednesday but their time in the city was not fruitful. In fact, quite the opposite. Relations were cool to begin with and downright frosty by the end. First of all, the Englishmen refused to address a public meeting when they arrived (in contrast with Keir Hardie who had come earlier). Then, as far as the Dublin men were concerned, a meeting with the Under-Secretary in Dublin Castle seemed to have left them with ‘a bad opinion’ of the Dublin leaders who came to the conclusion that their British brothers had set themselves up as arbitrators rather than supporters; at least one warned that they were trying to end the dispute behind Larkin’s back.

There was one very positive gesture, however, was the TUC’s pledge of £5,000 support for the strikers. At the suggestion of Bill O’Brien, this was given in kind since the sight of food ships docking on the Dublin quays would serve well as a symbol of resistance.

The problem was Larkin and the others did not want charity, they wanted solidarity. Larkin wanted a sympathetic strike and the British labour leaders had no intention of letting him have one; neither were they supportive of blacking goods to Ireland. Larkin, who had been arrested on Bloody Sunday, was released from Mountjoy on 12 September and immediately set off for England. He was there to raise money and support but while his ability to draw a crowd was clear, his lack of diplomacy was as bad as ever. He told a meeting at Manchester that the British trade union movement was ‘absolutely rotten’ and their leaders ‘damnable hypocrites,’ damning them collectively and then by name. Famously, he told them ‘I care for no man or men. I have got a divine mission, I believe, to make men and women discontented.’ If by some chance there was any doubt about where his sympathies lay in the British trade union movement, they were set straight when Larkin spoke at a series of rallies organized by the Daily Herald, the paper of the trade union rebels. Connolly for his part, called them ‘old fossils… willing to sell the pass at any time.’

Publicly, the British labour leaders held their tongues, but openly accused the Dublin unions as being ‘undisciplined and dangerous’ and that Larkin’s syndicalism was ‘poor fighting’ and ’15 years out of date.’

There was clearly support for Larkin and his tactics among the rank and file. Some 13,000 railwaymen in Liverpool, Birmingham, Crewe, Derby and Sheffield refused to carry goods destined for Dublin.[5] The Daily Herald reported that ‘the rank and file …say fight.’ NUR leader Jimmy Thomas was quick to put a stop to this. When, at the end of October, Larkin was found guilty of sedition in a case relating to events months before the Lockout, there was a swell of indignation and a protest rally at the Albert Hall, addressed by George Bernard Shaw and Sylvia Pankhurst, among others easily sold out. Ultimately pressure on the government to ensure Larkin’s release saw him let out of prison on 13 November. Soon after, he returned to England and began the campaign he dubbed ‘The Fiery Cross’ a series of huge meetings which began in Manchester where he spoke to a full house of 4,000 with five times that many outside. Workers flocked to hear him wherever he went: Birmingham, Cardiff, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Hull, Leicester, Liverpool, Newcastle, Preston, Stockport, Swansea. His appearance at the Albert Hall was a hot ticket among workers and aristocrats alike. The campaign and the importation of scabs saw another round of sympathetic strikes in Liverpool and Wales, this time involving some 30,000 workers.

Emmet O’Connor quotes a London official reporting

In all my experience I have never known a time when there has been manifested a desire to help any union in dispute as there is among dockers both in London and the provincial ports towards Dublin… We have had to rearrange the whole of our paid officials in London, placing them in certain centres with the express purpose of preventing any disorganized move.

Larkin’s continued appeals to the rank and file prompted the union leadership to take a stronger line against Larkin and by the time the TUC held a special congress to decide its tactics on the Lockout, it was clear that support among the leadership for sympathetic action was not there. Even those closest to Larkin like Ben Tillett were steadfast against the action. Congress voted to continue its financial support and lend its assistance in leading a settlement but clearly support had begun to ebb away. Strikers began to trickle back to work during December and by 18 January it was officially brought to an end.

Ultimately, the Lockout was disastrous for relations between the British and Irish labour movements but if the British labour movement was not prepared to endorse sympathetic action their support was worth a damn sight more than anything which came from Irish politicians who were either silent on the Lockout or vocally opposed to the strikers. If the Irish leaders saw he British union leadership as too cautious, this shouldn’t overshadow the class solidarity which was so clearly evident during the Lockout, especially by the rank and file. Between September 1913 and February 1914, a total of £150,000 was donated to the Lockout fund, of this two thirds came from British workers. At a time when Dublin trade unionists were callously abandoned by their fellow Irishmen and women, the support of British workers illustrated more than anything, who Irish labour’s friends were, and perhaps as importantly, precisely who they were not.


War, work and Irish labour

from Our War. Ireland and the Great War John Horne (ed.) (2009)

In 1914, when it seemed that a Home Rule parliament was merely months away, the Irish Trade Union Congress added the words ‘and Labour Party’ to its title.

The decision to establish a political wing had been made two years earlier, and but it was only in late July 1914 that it began to organize by appealing for funds to fight in the forthcoming election. The outbreak of war one week later put an end to Home Rule for the time being, and to Labour’s entrance onto the political stage.

Far from hindering Labour’s advance, however, the timing probably benefited the new party, since it is difficult to exaggerate the problems faced by the trade union movement at this point. Established in 1894, the Irish Congress of Trade Unions was a talking shop dominated by elite craft unions with little or no political or industrial influence. New unionism, which saw unskilled and general workers organized in militant unions, such as the Irish Transport and General Workers Union (ITGWU) established in 1909, had grown in the years immediately prior to the war, but the Dublin lockout of 1913 had brutally and decisively ended its upsurge.

Economic impact of the war

The war brought considerable economic gains to Ireland, but these were concentrated in certain areas and sectors. The British war economy was geared towards munitions, supplies and food. Sectors that were well placed to provide for these needs would have a good war but in areas where this was not the case, the results were mixed. Naturally, in Ireland agriculture reaped immediate benefits, with the 1914 harvest receiving the highest prices since the 1880s. But without rationing or caps on food prices, consumers found themselves instantly at a loss. Only weeks into the war, the National Executive of the Irish Trades Union Congress issued a manifesto to the workers of Ireland entitled ‘Why should Ireland starve?’ that called for controls of the food supply and castigated Irish farmers as ‘profit-mongering crows’. ‘To the men of our class who are armed,’ it announced, ‘we say keep your arms and use them if necessary. If God created the fruits of the earth He created them for you and yours’. The militancy of the manifesto was not reflected in any action at the time, however, and this was merely the first of many unheeded calls from the executive on the problem of prices and food.

Apart from food supplies,  the main economic contribution to the war effort came from the shipyards of Belfast where Harland and Wolff not only built naval vessels but converted passenger liners into military ships. War work saw the numbers employed in Harland and Wolff increase to around 25,000 while smaller yards also benefited to the point where 37,000 were employed in shipbuilding in Belfast.3 Elsewhere in the north, the linen mills and shirt factories were flat out on military contracts. Between the industrial north-east and prospering farmers, the war ushered in an economic boom.

Yet the boom benefited only existing industries. From the summer of 1915, when the Ministry of Munitions was established, an effort to spur output resulted in national ordnance factories being established across Britain. Ireland, however, was largely overlooked. Home Rule MPs and local pressure groups called for Ireland to be given its ‘share’ manufacturing armaments but in the short term, only a few ‘minor contracts’ were secured.4 It has been suggested that this was because employers in Britain and in Ulster were determined to ‘freeze nationalist Ireland out of lucrative contracts’ to keep the south deindustrialized, but when it came to munitions, northern firms fared no better.

The truth is that there was no practical reason to situate munitions factories in Ireland and there were significant logistical and security reasons why it would be quite inadvisable. By the winter of 1917, only five National Factories had been established in Ireland in Dublin, Waterford, Cork and Galway, employing 2,148 people. Most of these munitions workers were women since the government was determined that the creation of new jobs should not deter men from signing up. The contract signed by the Dublin Dockyard company, for instance, stipulated that not more than five percent of the total staff could be men or boys. In other factories, the proportion of men was greater, but women, doing the unskilled work, remained in the majority. It is hard to overestimate the comparative significance of the low level of munitions output in Ireland: what in many other wartime societies proved one of the most dynamic developments, affecting everything from gender relations (with the ubiquitous munitionnette) to the power and political clout of organized labour, was largely absent.


Yet Ireland did share in the wider phenomenon of economic uncertainty in the first few weeks of the war. In most cases, the fall in demand was temporary, but the drinks industry was hit more seriously. Excessive alcohol consumption was an issue which concerned most combatant states, and was a particular preoccupation of David Lloyd George who was Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1914-15. Believing that ‘munitions and materials are even more important than men,’ Lloyd George felt that excessive drinking was diminishing their quality and output and he highlighted in particular the mischief caused ‘in northern yards’ by ‘the drinking of raw, cheap spirits of a fiery quality’. On 29 April 1915 he announced to the Commons that he planned to introduce super-taxes on whiskey, beer and wine in an effort to curb demand. In 1912, the brewing and malting sector was the largest industrial contributor to gross domestic output in the twenty six counties, and distilling was also an important employer. In Dublin, Guinness had a workforce of around 3,500. In the event, the super-taxes were shelved in favour of the compulsory bonding of all spirits under three years of age under the Defence of the Realm Act. There followed legal efforts to curb consumption such as the reduction of opening hours in public houses and a ‘no treat order’ which prohibited buying rounds as well as further restrictions on output, which included the Output of Beer (Restriction) Act in the autumn of 1916 and at its most extreme, the complete closure of pot distilleries such as Powers in 1917.13 By 1918 Irish brewing output was half the level of 1916.

These actions led to large scale redundancies not only in the breweries and distilleries but also their suppliers. For instance, one round of restrictions introduced in 1917 resulted in 300 men being let go at the bottle works at Ringsend. Those lucky enough to remain employed were left in a profoundly insecure position, only one food order away from destitution or the front.

Recruiters were quick to exploit this insecurity. The Director of National Service in Ireland assured the thousands of men threatened with the loss of their jobs that he was ‘anxious to find employment for them’ but was ‘still unable to present any definite prospect of it’. Sir Bryan Mahon, Lieutenant-General Commanding in Chief of the Forces in Ireland stepped into the breach and in a public letter to the Irish Times declared that ‘their services will be gladly accepted in the ranks of any of our Irish regiments, or, if skilled workers, in […] technical corps.’ He also brought their attention to increased separation and dependents allowances ‘which together with their pay, food, clothing etc, will be found to compare favourably with the amount they would receive in civil employment.’

Of course, even without the additional push factors of the war, the economic impetus to enlist was very strong, not least since the conflict broke out only six months after the Dublin lockout had ended. The lockout had exacted a heavy toll on the ITGWU as an organization but even more so on its members. The union, under the direction of James Connolly, was vehemently opposed to the war and waged a vigorous campaign against its members joining up. It was difficult to compete with the inducements which the recruiting officers put before them, which included the promise of a steady army income, along with separation allowances for their families. Amidst the efforts to appeal to men’s patriotism in the enlistment campaign, the financial benefits for their families were prominent.

By the spring of 1915, some 2,500 members of the union, amounting to nearly half its membership at the time, had enlisted and one officer in the 16th Division noted that many of the men signing up were ‘real toughs […] Larkinites enticed to join the colours by the prospect of good food and pay, which was welcome to them after months of semi-starvation during the great strike of 1913 and 1914’. The over-representation of working class soldiers in the ranks was noted unfavourably by Irish recruiters. They feared the numbers of labourers enlisting was falling because the latter resented the failure of the farming and commercial classes to ‘share the burden of the war’ but that this was due to the dominance of the working class soldiers putting off middle class recruits.

‘We are satisfied that a much larger number of recruits could be obtained from the [farming and commercial classes] if it were not for their reluctance to enter upon their training with recruits from the labouring classes. This class prejudice is probably much more pronounced in Ireland than elsewhere in the United Kingdom.’

Industrial relations and the labour movement

Socialist and labour organizations across Europe had condemned the slide towards militarism in the years before the war. When the war actually broke out, however, deep divisions emerged. Those who continued to oppose the conflict were in the minority, while the majority rowed in behind their respective governments. In this, the parliamentary Labour Party in Britain was typical, with the British Trade Union Congress committing itself to industrial peace for the duration of the war.

The situation in Ireland, however, was quite different. There was a split on the war but it was based on nationalist rather than socialist lines and opponents of the war were very much in the majority in the labour movement. While unionist organized labour for the most part supported the war, nationalist trade unionists viewed the conflict as a British war against a British enemy; as James Connolly often pointed out in his speeches and journalism at this time, unlike Britain, Germany had never done Ireland any harm. As the banner on the front of the ITGWU headquarters in Liberty Hall put it: ‘We serve neither King nor Kaiser, but Ireland’. The Irish Trade Union Congress was an all-Ireland body, and splits on political questions were avoided when possible, with the result that while Congress’s executive was clearly against the war, it was less strident than might be expected. The desire to avoid disagreement actually led to the 1915 annual congress being cancelled.

Nevertheless, while Congress wished to avoid internal discord over the war an industrial truce was out of the question given the importance of war-related issues, notably conscription and inflation. Although the government did not impose conscription on Ireland in 1916, the Irish unions identified economic conscription (meaning various controls on workers) as almost equally pernicious. When the Dublin Chamber of Commerce met in September 1914, their president, Richard K. Gamble impressed upon the businessmen the need for employers to encourage and facilitate the enlistment of their workforce by keeping their jobs open on their return from war and explaining to them that the uncertainty of trade during the conflict meant that they could not be assured that they could retain their jobs if they stayed. Many companies did so, and also offered considerable allowances to the families of men who joined up, although some employers took a more active approach by dismissing workers in an effort to compel enlistment.

The other issue which occupied the labour movement was workers’ welfare and specifically the problems caused by the continued rise in the cost of living. Congress campaigned against soaring food prices to little avail, but when the unions eventually moved on wages, they met with greater success. Before war broke out, organized labour had been, in David Fitzpatrick’s description, ‘abnormally docile in every sector of industry.’ Although the ITGWU was still struggling under the debts and low morale left by the lockout, circumstances began to swing in the workers’ favour in 1916 due to two factors.

First was a radical change in how industrial relations operated. Under the 1915 Munitions Act, strikes in war factories were banned outright while all other industries required three weeks notice and disputes were put to mandatory arbitration. Although the legislation frightened the unions at the beginning, its benefits soon became obvious. The act forced employers to the bargaining table where otherwise they might have resorted to a pre-emptive lockout or simply waited for the strike pay to run out, which inevitably it did. The Munitions Act meant that the number of strikes increased, but so too did the negotiations and settlements. Unsurprisingly, the act was fiercely resented by employers, who complained that bureaucrats were meddling in their businesses, while on balance the results for labour were positive. For the unions, nothing succeeded like success. Compulsory arbitration created an entirely new momentum in the movement and membership snowballed. For instance, when a strike by Irish railwaymen in November 1916 resulted in the national control of the Irish railways and the payment of a war bonus, membership of the National Union of Railwaymen shot up from 5,000 to 17,000.

The second key wartime development was the growing scarcity of manpower which, as in other belligerent states, reinforced the bargaining power of organized labour – even in the absence (in the Irish case) of a major munitions sector. The labour market tightened further with the introduction of conscription in Britain in 1916.  Membership of the ITGWU expanded from 5,000 in 1916 to 120,000 by 1920, while the numbers in craft and clerical unions also grew significantly, so that by 1920 Congress represented 225,000 workers compared with 100,000 in 1916.

Along with membership, militancy was also on the rise as workers threatened or engaged in strikes in the face of strong wartime inflation. In a single day in October 1916, for instance, the Irish Times reported a threatened strike by bakers and strikes by gasworkers, grave diggers and coal porters in Dublin, although a strike by railwaymen on the Great Southern and Western had just been resolved.28 Members and militancy in turn fed the proliferation of trade union organizations – a development that was particularly evident in the ITGWU once the Rising had been crushed and Connolly’s preoccupation with the politics of nationalist insurrection ended in his execution.

The combination of farming profits, labour shortages and state regulation also extended labour organization into the normally quiescent sector of the landless agricultural workers. The Corn Production Act to establish guaranteed prices for wheat and oats was introduced in January 1917 and finally became law in August. Its progress through parliament had been hindered by conservative farming interests who opposed its provisions for a minimum wage for agricultural labourers which would be looked after by an Agricultural Wages Board, as well as capping workers’ hours and rent, so that farmers could not recoup the higher wages by hiking up their workers’ accommodation costs.

Farm workers had were difficult to organise, but the establishment of the Agricultural Wages Board provided the ITGWU with an opportunity to make a breakthrough. In spring 1917 it declared the organization of the agricultural workers to be a key objective, and by the autumn, new members flocked into the union. Even if some felt that the Wages Board rates were too low, market forces pushed up pay as the government made it compulsory to switch to tillage in order to increase the food supply, with the result that demand for farm labour became even tighter than before. The wages movement in agriculture only matured in 1919 but wartime conditions had provided the spur for effective organization of one of the largest and most exploited sectors of the Irish workforce. By 1920, 60,000 agricultural workers belonged to the ITGWU.

Women workers also benefited from the war, including those in historically under-organized industries, such as linen. In 1914 the Belfast-based Textile Operatives Society of Ireland and the Flax Roughers and Yard Spinners had a membership of 3,000 – about one tenth of its potential membership at the time – but by the end of the conflict, the two unions had a combined membership of some 20,000. The smaller new sectors were also represented, with women working in the munitions industry being represented by the London basedNational Federation of Women Workers which also represented women in the food processing industries as well as textiles. Another British based union, the Amalgamated Society of Tailors and Tailoresses, which had recently (if reluctantly) expanded into garment factories, represented thousands of women workers in Ireland by the war’s end.

In contrast, the Irish Women Workers’ Union, the sister union of the ITGWU, failed to expand its organisation or membership to any significant degree. Like the Transport Union it had been hard hit by the lockout, but it was also ravaged by personality disputes and distracted by national issues, to the point where it failed to make a similar recovery.

Overall, the struggle to organize industrially and to raise wages was a success. Practically every section of the workforce secured wage increases, often through negotiation, even if these still trailed the cost of living. Workers also dealt with the problem of profiteering in food supplies by establishing cooperatives such as the ‘Workers’ Bakery’ formed by locked-out bakers in Tralee, which widened their sphere of activism and broadened their tactics. Indeed, this period saw a significant rise in local cohesion with the formation of trades councils in most towns across the country. Efforts to overcome the food crisis in effect broadened the awareness, diversified the activity and strengthened the solidarity of the labour movement.


The politics of labour and the anti-conscription campaign

The labour movement had been tangentially involved in the crisis of nationalist politics provoked by the Rising in 1916, most notably through the leadership of Connolly and the role of the Irish Citizen Army. Nineteen seventeen, the year of the failed socialist peace conference at Stockholm and of the two Russian revolutions, which culminated in Lenin taking Russia out of the war, affected the more radial Socialists. In early 1918, for example, the Socialist Party of Ireland (SPI), founded by Connolly long before the war and re-established after the first Russian Revolution in 1917, celebrated the November Revolution with a mass meeting in Dublin’s Mansion House at which around 10,000 people ‘hailed with delight the advent of the Russian Bolshevik Revolution’.38 The SPI proclaimed that the revolution had ‘fearlessly challenged the British people to loosen its grip upon Ireland.’ But in 1918 what loosened Britain’s grip was not radical socialism (a distinctly minority cause in Ireland) but a renewed crisis of nationalist politics.

Russia’s withdrawal from the war and the punitive peace imposed by the German military on the Bolsheviks the following March paved the way for the Kaiser’s last throw – the spring offensive in the west whose initial blow fell on British troops, including the 16th (Irish) and the Ulster (36th) Divisions, provoking the collapse of the Fifth Army. The political impact of this military crisis on Ireland was acute and instantaneous as the Cabinet decided that conscription must now be imposed on Ireland in a desperate search for more soldiers to stem the danger of a German victory. The British Labour members of the government warned against extending conscription to Ireland before Home Rule had been introduced, but the upshot was a compromise whereby Lloyd George tied conscription to the renewed promise of Home Rule.

In Ireland itself, conscription on any terms was unacceptable both to the Irish MPs and to nationalist opinion, so its eventual introduction without reference to Home Rule in April 1918 merely compounded the sense of anger in the country. The Irish Trade Union Congress was at the forefront of national resistance, joining with the Irish Parliamentary Party, the All-for-Ireland League and Sinn Féin in the anti-conscription conference in the Mansion House, while the Catholic hierarchy actively supported the campaign. In a clear echo of the Ulster Solemn League and Covenant of 1913, the Mansion House conference drew up ‘Ireland’s solemn League and covenant – a national pledge’ which vowed that conscription would be opposed ‘by the most effective means at our disposal.’

The united front was vitally important in this campaign, but Congress also worked alone, using both its political contacts and industrial strength to good effect. Relations between the British and Irish labour movements had deteriorated during the 1913 lockout after Jim Larkin had failed to convince the British unions to come out in sympathetic action for the Dublin workers, and were never effectively rebuilt afterwards. Now the channels of communication were opened once again over the issue of conscription. On 10 April, the day after the bill had been introduced in the Commons, Thomas Johnson and Cathal O’Shannon had travelled to London to meet members of the British Trades Union Congress executive to discuss the matter. This resulted in a statement of support from the British body, though it clearly had little effect on the passage of the bill and there was some resentment that only a handful of Labour MPs had voted against the measure. Efforts to engage Labour’s fraternal links did not end there, but the Irish unions decided a show of strength would prove more effective.

On 20 April 1,500 delegates at a special Labour convention backed a call to hold a general strike three days later on Tuesday 23 April. One of the first general strikes to take place in western Europe, the action was ‘most complete and thorough’ with only banks, the law courts and government offices operating that day.43 Because the issue was not industrial and because the politics were those of nationalism, not socialism, many employers backed their workers, although some threatened lockouts or even dismissal if employees participated. The success of the strike was remarkable, not least because it was organized so rapidly and effectively despite heavy press censorship. Workers protested at hundreds of meetings across the country, including 30,000 in Cork city, although fear of retaliation by the authorities inhibited gatherings in Dublin. The call to strike had been heeded almost universally with one vital exception. In the north east it was business as usual. Belfast and its surrounding counties were committed to the war effort and the cleavage on the issue that Congress had worked so hard to avoid opened up.

The united political and religious front, the signing of the anti-conscription pledge by hundreds of thousands, and the success of the general War, work and Irish labour strike made the depth of opposition quite clear. In a misguided effort to convince workers to abandon their stance, the pro-war Labour MP and general secretary of the National Union of Railwaymen, J. H. Thomas, came to the Mansion House in  Dublin to address members on the advisability of conscription – and met with a predictable response. When Irish Labour representatives travelled to London the following day, they fared a little better, convincing British Labour to issue an appeal against conscription in Ireland ‘on the grounds of principle and expediency alike’ and arguing that ‘the passage of the Conscription Act has done more to cement the National unity than any other act could have done.’ British Labour was unable to influence the government but its diagnosis was accurate. The strength of resistance made it impossible to impose conscription in Ireland, and while the Irish labour movement was only one component of the campaign, the strength conferred on it by the war economy endowed it with vital muscle for the nationalist cause. The relationship, moreover, proved reciprocal as the success of the strike further boosted ITGWU membership.

The period following the strike represented the zenith of trade union membership and confidence in Ireland, and when the annual congress of the ITUC met in Waterford that August, the atmosphere was electric. The strike seemed to have shown labour’s potential and as the chairman William O’Brien told delegates,

‘we shall not hurriedly neglect that lesson […] that a solid, united and determined working class acting as one man […] can bring to a standstill the whole industrial life of the country and all government.’

Bolstered by recent events, Congress decided to renew its political action, renamed itself the Irish Labour Party and Trade Union Congress, and mandated the National Executive to draft a new constitution. In early September, the executive decided to field candidates in the election that would follow the war. By the time the conflict had ended, however, and the country went to the polls for the first time in seven years, Labour had withdrawn from the contest rather than stand against Sinn Féin.

In conclusion, the Great War both transformed the situation of the Irish labour movement and delivered some harsh lessons on its margins of political manoeuvre in a society still divided more by nationalism than class. By comparison with Britain and other major industrial societies, the war had relatively little impact on the nature of the Irish economy. Crucially, there was no break-neck expansion in engineering, chemicals and metallurgy – the industries of the post-war future – and no industrial transformation of the relatively unindustrialized bulk of the country. Nevertheless, labour’s position at the end of the war was incomparably stronger than before the conflict. The rise in prices and the unequal benefits derived from the war-time economy encouraged workers to organize and take action, while legislation, particularly the Munitions Act and the Agricultural Wages Board, compelled employers to participate in the processes of industrial relations where workers’ demands had previously been ignored with impunity. This increased labour organization and revived militancy in a movement that had been shattered following the lockout.

Ireland was a semi-detached part of the United Kingdom, which made it a semi-detached society in the war. Although some 210,000 Irish men fought in the conflict, the war did not have anything like the same impact on Irish society as a whole as it did in Britain. Britain and Ireland differed not only in the extent to which the war changed society but also in the nature of that change. Although it ought not be exaggerated, the war had a something of a levelling impact on British society since four years of bloodletting created, as Jay Winter has noted, ‘a bond of bereavement which transcended distinctions of class or caste’.

This is not to suggest that the war ended class distinctions – far from it. The sacrifice of war opened the way for a new era of social reform and socialist reformism – the idea of establishing a ‘land fit for heroes’. This contributed to Labour’s displacement of the Liberals as the alternative force in British politics and to the achievement of a goal unthinkable only ten years earlier – the Labour-led government of 1923-1924.

There were no echoes of this in Ireland. The Home Rule parliament that might have provided a framework for it never materialized. Conscription was never enforced because by 1918 it represented for most nationalists the imposition of a blood-sacrifice not by the Irish nation but by a foreign state. Yet without it, enlistment patterns outside Ulster tended to divide along two lines: religion and class. In effect it was Protestants and working class men who joined the colours while middle class Catholics for the most part abstained. Rather than a ‘bond of bereavement’ being established in Ireland, the war actually widened the divisions between the classes.

The Irish experience of the Great War as a war fought by certain classes and not others was also reflected in the impact of the conflict on Irish workers at home. The war boosted the agricultural economy and provided large profits in certain industries, but it was working class families who bore the brunt of food shortages and increased prices as wages failed to keep pace with war time inflation. It was precisely this situation, and the action of workers to tackle it, that brought the Irish trade union movement back from the brink to its strongest position yet. However, in the unresolved crisis of Irish relations with Britain, this industrial power (and the distinctive ‘syndicalism’ to which it gave rise) could not readily be translated into an autonomous Labour politics, let alone radical Socialism. As war ended, the Congress party began to prepare once again to step onto the political stage, from an apparently far stronger position than in 1914.

This time it was organized, this time it was ready. But Labour was prevailed upon to stand aside by Sinn Féin. Had it not done so, who can say how it would have fared. But unlike the false start in 1914, this was a setback from which Labour would never recover.




Kindling the Flame

150 Years of the Irish National Teachers’ Organisation

Final Cover 15 NovThis is a finely researched and readable account of multiple struggles over 150 years, in which themes of politics, class, gender and power are deftly interwoven through the story of the Irish National Teachers’ Organisation.

The INTO emerged in 1868 as teachers across Ireland united to fight for their rights. Men and women, Catholic and Protestant, they were all subject to poor pay, dire conditions and no job security, banned from speaking publicly about their grievances and ignored by the Board of National Education which oversaw them.


Against these obstacles, the INTO steadily grew in strength and influence to take on the Dublin-based education authorities which oversaw them, the London government which paid them and the priests who employed them.

Simultaneously, the organisation which was non-political (neither nationalist nor unionist) and non-sectarian negotiated the inevitable challenges thrown up in a country that was often split along national and religious lines.

After decades of fighting campaigns against the British administration for recognition and for decent conditions of employment, it had to fight them all over again against governments in Dublin and Belfast.

This is an important book that examines education, religion, politics, labour history and society on the island of Ireland from the Fenians to Brexit.


Puirséil, a professional historian and highly regarded author of the Irish Labour Party 1922-73, has written a book that is well researched, accessible and fluent…  This book does justice to the difficulties, achievements, mistakes and triumphs that have made the INTO a towering trade union and illuminates the implications of excessive religious control of primary schools as well as skilfully excavating the politics of education.

Professor Diarmaid FerriterIrish Times 

The INTO was never merely a trade union, but a curious mix of professional association and educational lobby, and it is that hybrid nature which makes the  sesquicentennial history of Niamh Puirséil such an engaging read. It reminds us, too, what a central role teachers have played in Irish society as a whole…

Kindling the Flame: 150 years of the Irish National Teachers’ Organisation tells the story of an incredible movement, an appreciation of which presents valuable insights into the history of Ireland more generally. Niamh Puirséil is to be commended on her achievement.

Professor Daire KeoghThe Irish Catholic 

A very important contribution to the historiography of the period and demonstrates the importance of such studies in the understanding of the politics of education.

Professor Marie Clarke, Journal of the History of Education, October 2018 

A lively book with many fascinating asides and gems 

Dr. Caitríona Clear, Irish Historical StudiesDecember 2018


Kindling the Flame is available to order here.