At the time of the Norman invasion the Irish church under its primate, Gilla Mac Liag or Gelasius, had welcomed the advent of Henry II and accepted his claim to be an ecclesiastical reformer. As a result the invaders, while ensuring that English or French clerics controlled the church in the areas they themselves had colonised, did not interfere with the primacy of all Ireland at Armagh. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the coarbship of Patrick was held in turn by ten primates of native Irish stock, a German, an Italian and only one Anglo-Norman, Luke Netterville, freely elected in 1217.

The Wood’s Halfpence affair has long been recognised as one of the most serious disputes to have occurred between the Irish and British political establishments during the eighteenth century. There is no doubt that the conflict — caused by Irish resentment over the patent granted to William Wood to coin copper halfpence for Ireland — was one of the most serious ruptures in Anglo-Irish relations between the Williamite war and the ‘patriot’ campaign of the 1750s. The simple fact is that in 1723–4 the British administration was unable to implement its policy in Ireland. The Irish parliamentary managers declined to co-operate in the implementation of Wood’s patent, the Irish privy council failed to offer advice about how the conflict might be resolved, and the Irish lords justices refused to obey the positive orders of the British government.

In the past historians have argued that, shocked by the demonstrable unreliability of its Irish servants during this episode, the British government adopted a systematic policy of appointing English officials to the highest offices of Irish state and church. The appointment of Hugh Boulter as primate of the Church of Ireland in 1724 and of Richard West as lord chancellor in 1725 seemed to support such an interpretation.

Richard O'Ferrall's claim of 5 March 1658 that the Stuart monarchy had no right to rule Ireland was made almost in passing. The real purpose of the report made by this Capuchin friar and courtier at the congregation of Propaganda Fide, the committee of cardinals whose jurisdiction included nearly all those missions and churches under non-Catholic governments, was to exclude all Irish Catholics of English descent from high ecclesiastical office. At the centre of his argument was the confederate Catholic association of the 1640s and the place within it of the Old English community. The Capuchin argued that the confederates had remained too closely bound to the Stuart monarchy, and that the Old English had betrayed the confederate cause to Charles I's lord lieutenant of Ireland, James Butler, earl, marquis and later duke of Ormond. Many of O'Ferrall's Catholic contemporaries saw him as a dangerous member of a radical tradition: a clerical assembly at Dublin in June 1666 burned his report along with a copy of Conor O'Mahony's Disputatio apologetica of 1645, which had argued that all Ireland's Protestants should be killed or expelled and a native king elected. The Commentarius Rinuccinianus, begun by O'Ferrall, developed the argument of the 1658 report on a grand scale.

During the latter part of the reign of James II, the Church of Ireland was in a position of considerable delicacy. On the one hand, there was a real fear that the church would face annihilation at the hands of the ruling administration; if the threats of the catholic population had come to fruition, if the statutes passed by the Jacobite parliament of 1689 had been put into effect or if the Tyrconnell administration had remained in power any longer than it did, this fear would almost certainly have been realized. On the other hand, by the spring of 1689, Anglican churchmen could see that a Williamite victory might spell for them—as it did for the Church of Scotland—summary disestablishment. Most Irish Anglicans had already fled to England, thereby lending support to the Williamites; the northern presbyterians had actually taken up arms on the Williamite side. Only the remnant of the Church of Ireland left in Dublin seemed to be disloyal to the protestant king: and this remnant, to save its skin, had to continue outwardly loyal to its de jure and de facto monarch, James II. Whatever the outcome of the war which they all foresaw, the leaders of the remnant of the Church of Ireland can have held little hope for the future. A Jacobite victory would almost certainly mean the triumph of the catholic church and the despoiling of the Church of Ireland: a Williamite victory might well mean the triumph of the presbyterians and a partial disestablishment. In either case the Church of Ireland, dependent for its very existence on a firm establishment, would founder.

This article examines the sole extant and complete set of signed witness statements for an Irish witchcraft trial. These testimonies were given at Florence Newton's trial for witchcraft at Cork assizes in September 1661, and were signed by the presiding judge, Sir William Aston. The Aston manuscript has been annotated and transcribed in its full, original form for the first time, providing historians with a unique document with which to explore one of the few Irish witchcraft trials. This article also provides suggestions for new ways of looking at the case, and more importantly demonstrates that Newton was not, as once thought, put to death for witchcraft under the 1586 Irish Witchcraft Act but died during her trial. Furthermore, taken in the context of early modern European witchcraft, the case is shown to be an important example of a witch trial occurring in a highly gendered, contested, post-conflict society.

‘Compared with present work in British and American economic history’, observes Dr L. A. Clarkson, ‘current Irish writing looks a trifle old-fashioned, with the bewitching voices of the social sciences muted and statistical wizardry missing’. While historically-minded sociologists might consider that this judgement of a meagre contribution from the social sciences needs qualification, there is no doubt that studies embodying sophisticated quantitative techniques are only beginning to trickle into the mainstream of Irish historiography. Yet there have been a number of important contributions, particularly in econometric history. While these constitute a small current in the flood of historical writings in the last decade or so, their qualitative and strategic significance is such as to merit detailed analysis.

The catholic church in Ireland never, as a church, defined for itself an attitude towards emigration. Priests and bishops, when they spoke of emigration, usually spoke as individuals, not as members of their order. The relatively small number who have left any opinions on record were not necessarily the most influential. We cannot be certain that their views represented the feelings of the clergy as a whole. The day to day conversations and advice of ordinary priests, of which we can know little, mere far more influential in this matter than the pastorals or public letters which survive. In the place of a single voice speaking with authority or the steady murmur of unanimity, we can hear only the heterogeneous confusion of a score of voices, some perhaps seriously distorted by the public controversy in which they were raised.

During the worst year of the Great Irish Famine, ‘Black ’47’, tens of thousands of people fled across the Irish Sea from Ireland to Britain, desperately escaping the starvation and disease plaguing their country. These refugees, crowding unavoidably into the most insalubrious accommodation British towns and cities had to offer, were soon blamed for deadly outbreaks of epidemic typhus which emerged across the country during the first half of 1847. Indeed, they were accused of transporting the pestilence, then raging in Ireland, over with them. Typhus mortality rates in Ireland and Britain soared, and so closely connected with the disease were the Irish in Britain that it was widely referred to as ‘Irish fever’. Much of what we know about this epidemic is based on a handful of studies focusing almost exclusively on major cities along the British west-coast. Moreover, there has been little attempt to understand the legacy of the episode on the Irish in Britain. Taking a national perspective, this article argues that the ‘Irish fever’ epidemic of 1847 spread far beyond the western port of entry, and that the epidemic, by entrenching the association of the Irish with deadly disease, contributed significantly to the difficulties Britain's Irish population faced in the 1850s.

The period 1906–14 is often regarded as one of continual disagreement and turmoil in British politics. This may be true; but it is important to understand why. In fact, British politics between 1906 and 1914 were marked by a strong desire to avoid extremes. Developments on the fringe of politics, socialism, syndicalism and suffragism, made a deep impression upon the moderate elements of both major parties and their desire to contain such signs of disturbance was epitomised in the constitutional conference held in 1910. Yet the Irish question frustrated attempts at moderation, embittered politics and hindered the development of a more representative, democratic and social stage in the United Kingdom.

This paper is concerned with the secret service vote provided by parliament expressly for the purchase of secret information at home and abroad ‘with a view to defeating the machinations of the enemies of the crown and country’, and with the proportion of that money spent by the Irish authorities up to 1922. Figures are available which disclose the actual expenditure by Dublin Castle of money from this source for the last fifty-four years of British rule in Ireland, from 1868–9 to 1921–2. It must be stressed that these amounts represent only a part of the spending in any one year on intelligence concerning Ireland: other departments were also involved in Irish affairs from time to time, and there is little doubt that on occasion funds from other votes were used for secret service purposes —which was certainly the case in wartime. It should be noted too that distinctions between criminal, agrarian and subversive activity in Ireland were frequently difficult to make, and that money from the secret service vote was probably used to obtain information on matters not political or seditious in themselves. Thus the figures when considered in isolation are not an accurate index of official activity against potentially subversive organisations. Nevertheless as concrete data on an aspect of government for which documentary evidence is hard to come by, they are of some interest.

The restoration settlement has long been the subject of controversy Petty in his Political anatomy calculated that by 1672 catholics had recovered a little less than a third of the ‘good land‘ of Ireland. Several alternative estimates were made at the time, such as that of Richard Lawrence, whose Interest of Ireland, published in 1682, put the catholic share at a little more than a fifth of the whole. But Petty remained the generally accepted authority until he was challenged by Butler, who estimated that ‘ at the accession of James II only at the outside one-seventh or one-eighth of the total area of the island remained in the possession of catholics ’

This article critically re-assesses Conor Cruise O'Brien's attitude to Northern Ireland between 1969 and 1977. It argues that O'Brien's most significant contribution to public life was the ability to deconstruct many aspects of Irish nationalism, specifically his rejection of the Irish state's irredentist claim over Northern Ireland. In doing so, it contends that O'Brien was one of the most important, and outspoken, champions of so-called ‘revisionist nationalism’ of his generation. The article examines three themes in relation to O'Brien's attitude to Northern Ireland: his attack on the Irish state's anti-partitionism; his rejection of Irish republican terrorism; and his support for the ‘principle of consent’ argument. The article illustrates that O'Brien was criticised in nationalist circles and accused of committing political heresy. Indeed, his willingness to challenge the attitude of most mainstream Irish politicians on Northern Ireland invariably left him an isolated figure, even among his own Labour Party comrades. Writing in his Memoir, O'Brien neatly summed up the difficult position in which he found himself: ‘I was altogether out of tune with my colleagues over Northern Ireland’.

John Kells Ingram was born in County Donegal in 1823. His ancestry was Scottish Presbyterian, but his grandparents had converted to Anglicanism. He was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, the most prestigious academic institution in nineteenth-century Ireland. In a brilliant academic career spanning over fifty years he proceeded to occupy a succession of chairs at the college. His published work included an important History of political economy (1888), and he delivered a significant presidential address to the economics and statistics section of the British Association for the Advancement of Science (1878). Ingram influenced, and was respected by, many contemporary social and economic thinkers in the British Isles and elsewhere. In an obituary one of Ingram’s friends exaggerated only slightly in describing him as ‘probably the best educated man in the world’.

Yet contemporary perspectives on Ingram’s career were warped by one act of his youth which was to create a curious disjunction in his life. In 1843, when only nineteen years old, Ingram was a sympathiser with the nationalist Young Ireland movement. One night, stirred by the lack of regard shown for the Irish rebels of 1798 by the contemporary O’Connellite nationalist movement, he wrote a poem entitled ‘The memory of the dead’, eulogising these ‘patriots’. Apparently without much thought, Ingram submitted the poem anonymously to the Nation newspaper. It appeared in print on 1 April 1843 and, better known by its first line, ‘Who fears to speak of ’Ninety-Eight?’, became a popular Irish nationalist anthem.

Protestant working-class loyalists have been found not only in Belfast, behind the painted kerbs and muralled gables of the Shankill Road and Ballysillan. Recent research has found working-class loyalism in the Ulster hinterland of mid-Armagh. However, most of what has been written on southern Protestantism, beyond Belfast and Ulster, has been on the gentry class. Yet Dublin was once the centre of organised Protestant opinion in Ireland and had, in the early nineteenth century, an assertive and exuberantly sectarian Protestant working class. This paper is based on a study of the Protestant working class of Dublin, and examines its organisation and activism as revealed in the City and County of Dublin Conservative Workingmen’s Club (henceforth C.W.C.). The club owned a substantial Georgian house on York Street, off St Stephen’s Green where the modern extension to the Royal College of Surgeons now stands. The club was sustained by a core of activists numbering around three hundred, the usual print-run for the ballot papers at the annual general meeting. The Protestant working class numbered 5,688 in the city in 1881. The county area numbered 4,096, making a total of 9,784 Protestant workingclass men. The city and county total of about 10,000 remained stable up to the census of 1911. Combined with the Protestant lower middle class of clerks and shopkeepers, the potential to be mobilised by the C.W.C. numbered over 20,000. The club records are used to relate the experience of the Dublin Protestant working class firstly to the more familiar working-class loyalism of Ulster, and secondly to working-class Toryism and the concept of the labour aristocracy.

William Nicholas Keogh (1817–1878) has long been remembered as the placehunting lawyer who betrayed his country and wrecked the political fortunes of Irish constitutional nationalism for a generation. As a member of the fifty-strong Irish Independent Party of the early 1850s, Keogh pledged himself to independent opposition, only to accept ministerial office in 1852 as solicitor-general for Ireland. For this act Keogh has long been represented as a man who succumbed to personal ambition at the expense of a popular cause, which he allegedly supported with the sole objective of extracting political capital. Such was the ignominy with which he came to be regarded in later years that his name became a byword for betrayal, as evidenced by the fact that members of John Redmond’s Edwardian Irish Parliamentary Party were characterised as the Keoghs and Sadleirs of their day. Keogh’s infamy was exacerbated further by the inflammatory judgment he issued when presiding over the Galway election petition of 1872, for which he would be labelled ‘villifier-in-ordinary of the Irish priests’.

There were three good reasons why Edward II hastened to secure papal help within the first year of the pontificate of John XXII (1316-17). A number of important bishoprics were vacant to which the king hoped to secure his candidate, he needed fiscal help for defence purposes, and the weight of papal condemnation to fall on his enemies. Within the year he had secured a satisfactory degree of papal support in each of these three desiderabilia, and the cooperation of pope and king touched Irish affairs at some important points.

The general reasons why the king should wish to arrange episcopal succession to his liking are well known. There was particular reason for securing politically reliable bishops in Ireland. As Edward himself was to explain to John, the ‘fraudulent machinations and malicious and false collusion’ of some Irish prelates against royal power had been a major factor in the risings connected with Edward Bruce’s invasion. At this time both Dublin and Cashel were vacant, and Edward took all measures to ensure their filling by men acceptable to him. There were two candidates in the field at Cashel, nominees of a split in the chapter. In August of 1316, Edward wrote to eight cardinals impressing on them the necessity of having an English archbishop, and urging the candidature of a Franciscan, Geoffrey of Aylsham.

The Irish question in the form of home rule reasserted itself in British politics during the years 1910-18, first as the central issue in British political debate, then as a secondary, though still significant, concern for Britain during the First World War. One of Britain’s national institutions, Punch, a weekly magazine of political commentary and satire with a circulation of 100,000, reflected the significance of the Irish question by devoting a great deal of attention during these years to the leaders of the two opposing forces in Irish politics, the Irish nationalist leader John Redmond and the Irish unionist leader Sir Edward Carson. Redmond and Carson became regular members of Punch’s leading cast of characters in its political cartoons in the 1910s, a group which included the Liberal premier H. H. Asquith, his leading ministers David Lloyd George and Winston Churchill, and the opposition leader Andrew Bonar Law.