Between 13 and 15 August 1969 communal violence in Belfast saw seven people killed and over 400 treated for injuries. Nearly 2,000 families were forced from their homes. British troops were deployed on the streets to prevent further violence, events usually seen as the starting point of the modern Irish Troubles. In 1972 the Sunday Times Insight Team's Ulster set the tone for commentary on the role of the I.R.A. during this period. It claimed that the organisation had been ‘largely an irrelevance’ in Belfast during August 1969 and as a result ‘I.R.A. – I Ran Away was scrawled derisively over the walls of the Catholic Ghettos’. Conor Cruise O'Brien soon asserted in States of Ireland that when violence erupted ‘the I.R.A. had very few weapons and very few people trained and ready to use them. Their prestige in the Ghettos went sharply down. People wrote on walls I.R.A. I Ran Away.’ Echoing these statements twentythree years later Tim Pat Coogan in his book The Troubles stated that ‘the I.R.A. posed very little threat to anyone during those days. So little that the disgusted inhabitants of the area, used to regarding the I.R.A. in the traditional role of “the defenders” wrote up the letters I.R.A. on gable walls as Irish Ran Away.' Similar assertions are found in a wide variety of the literature, both popular and academic, dealing with the outbreak of the Troubles.

There must still be room for argument over whether Ireland's ‘war of independence’ was a spontaneous movement of the mass of the people, as Republicans hold, or whether, as the British government liked to suggest, it was essentially the work of a handful of fanatical terrorists. In attempting to resolve this argument, considerable weight must be placed on instances of what would now be called civil resistance—where the government is opposed by ordinary members of the public. Foremost amongst these are politically-motivated industrial actions. It is a curious feature of Irish historiography that very little attention has in fact been paid to the industrial actions which occurred during the Anglo-Irish conflict of 1916-1921, most notably the embargo on the transportation of government forces and munitions implemented by Irish railway workers between May and December 1920.

At first sight the choice of the Augustinian priory of Kells in Ossory as the subject of a case study may seem a trifle arbitrary. True, its imposing ruins provide a feast for the archaeologist, but the loss of the original register — in place of which we have to settle for a few pages of tantalising excerpts — leaves the historian with a mere snack. Moreover, the priory falls well short of being a member of the big monastic league: at the Dissolution its income was barely quarter that of the great Augustinian abbey of St Thomas, Dublin. How can one justify choosing a subject which is both poorly documented and undistinguished? The short answer is that it is precisely this lack of distinctiveness which makes it representative of a large proportion of Augustinian houses founded in the wake of the Norman conquest.

In the second year of the English civil war both king and parliament sought and received substantial military assistance from outside the kingdom: Charles concluded a truce with the Irish rebels and began the importation of troops from Ireland; parliament negotiated the introduction of an army from Scotland. Historians of the period are agreed that these parallel steps had quite opposite results. While the Scots army is invariably viewed as a ‘big factor in turning the scales against the king’, Charles's importation of Irish soldiers is regarded as having an insignificant impact on his military situation and a disastrous effect upon his popular standing. Parliament's alliance with the Scots has therefore been acclaimed necessary and prudent, Charles's acquisition of Irish help a terrible blunder. Samuel R. Gardiner, in his classic history of the English civil war, singled out the king's importation of Irish troops to England as the act which did most to weaken his authority.

One of the most noticeable features of Irish political life in the 'later eighteenth century, is, that though political power was :oncentrated in comparatively few hands, there was a very large leasure of political freedom. One could in fact sum up the system by saying that it was oligarchy tempered by discussion. As a result, voluntary and unofficial societies and clubs arose for the purpose of educating and influencing public opinion, and were the nuclei of much political thought and action. There [were Whig Clubs, Constitutional Clubs, Societies for the [Preservation of Liberty and Peace and Associations of Independent Voters. Thus there was nothing very strange in the Iformation, in November 1791, of a Dublin branch of the newly bounded Society of United Irishmen. But this group was to prove unique in at least one respect.

On 23 May 2006 the Irish Supreme Court declared that the Criminal Law Amendment Act, 1935 was inconsistent with the 1937 Constitution. It found that section 1 (1) of the act deprived a man charged with unlawful carnal knowledge of the defence of having made a reasonable mistake as to the age of the girl in question, and therefore of his constitutional right to a trial in due course of law. In his judgment, Mr Justice Adrian Hardiman stated that ‘the Section contains no balance: it wholly removes the mental element and expressly criminalises the mentally innocent. It need not necessarily have done so.’

The relationship of Ireland to the Commonwealth during the period of its membership was a tortuous one. Forced to accept dominion status under threat of the renewal of Anglo-Irish hostilities, Ireland was not an enthusiastic member of the club as were the older dominions. The Constitutional Amendment (No. 27) Bill, enacted on 11 December 1936, removed all references to the crown and governor general from the constitution while the Executive Authority (External Relations) Bill, enacted the next day, recognised the crown only for purposes of diplomatic representation and international agreements. These two measures, commonly referred to as the External Relations Act, left Ireland a more or less undeclared republic with ambiguous links to the Commonwealth. Wartime neutrality differentiated Ireland even further from the other dominions, aroused British anger and brought the question of Ireland's constitutional status into even greater prominence. Ireland was, the Canadian high commissioner in Dublin considered in 1944, a more or less unknown quantity' The Canadian government, though it would have preferred a different choice, respected Ireland's neutrality and resented British actions, taken without prior consultation, that might have contrived to drive Ireland from the Commonwealth. The end of the war removed a major cause of grievance but left Ireland's nosition unresolved.

Gerald Balfour's appointment as chief secretary for Ireland on 4 July 1895 was as unexpected as it was intriguing. Recording the event in his diary Sir Edward Hamilton, Gladstone's former private secretary and now assistant financial secretary to the Treasury, described it as ‘quite a surprise and a considerable experiment’, and the Carlton Club, noted more for its relentless suspicion of Irish chief secretaries than its welcoming of surprises and experiments, grumbled ominously. After all Gerald Balfour had led an uneventful academic life at Cambridge followed by a back-bench career in the house of commons that had proved neither prominent nor promising, and he clearly owed his new position to the support of his illustrious brother, Arthur, and the unbridled nepotism of his uncle, Lord Salisbury, the prime minister. Like his avuncular patron, he soon developed a weakness for ‘blazing indiscretion’ and in his first major policy speech to his Leeds constituents after his election he spoke of ‘killing home rule with kindness’ This rather glib phrase provoked a furore among the Irish nationalists and aroused the scepticism of many Irish unionists, though, as Gerald Balfour subsequently protested, he was merely echoing the strategy his brother had pursued with full unionist support in the 1880s.

The most resounding charge brought during the last two decades against ‘revisionism’ in Irish historiography has been that of a tacit collaboration between historians and the government. This accusation is too serious to be left unexamined. Traditionalists have denounced ‘revisionism’ as a dubious device designed to prop up the border and undo the work of the revolution. Desmond Fennell declared categorically that ‘Both in its ultimate thrust, and as a matter of objective fact, [it] is the historiography of the counter-revolution.’ Séamus Deane defined it as ‘a provincial phenomenon’ and dismissed its practitioners as ‘neo-unionists’.

Desmond Bowen’s recently published ‘Study of Protestant-Catholic relations between the Act of Union and Disestablishment’ has been a well received investigation of the polarisation between evangelical anglicanism and an increasingly ‘Roman’ catholicism. In his view the historically fragmented religio-political culture of pre-nineteenth century Ireland was, after 1822, the perfect battleground for two imperialistic ecclesiastical systems: ‘When protestant proselytising was openly encouraged in parts of the country after 1822 and the movement for emancipation gained momentum, the castigation of religious leaders who urged conciliation instead of confrontation increased.’

The 1930s in Northern Ireland was a period of rituals, performed for the population at large. Such unionist demonstrations and theatrical set pieces were unique manifestations of unionist culture. In a period of austerity and high unemployment in Northern Ireland, and increasingly aggressive nationalism in the Irish Free State, they were also a response to political developments. The demonstrations of the 1930s provided unionists with a common political tradition with which to identify, as well as an affirmation of the state, particularly through unionist involvement in royal occasions. The colour and drama of these ceremonies was forcefully conveyed through the pages of the main unionist papers, the Belfast Newsletter, the Northern Whig and the Belfast Telegraph, as the theatricality of the third home rule drama had been. The attention given to these rituals in the press in Northern Ireland is important because it was through the press that these often elitist events were made accessible to the population at large. Through press coverage, which was as comprehensive as it was dramatic, the masses were at least given a sense that they were participating in the collective life of their community. The major ceremonial festivals of this decade were those which celebrated Edward Carson: the opening of the Stormont parliament, which was presented as the first monument to the former unionist leader; the unveiling of the statue honouring him in 1933; his funeral in 1935; and the unveiling of a plaque in his honour in 1938. Andrew Gailey has already outlined the way in which Carson’s ‘performances’ were orchestrated in the period of the third home rule crisis. Carson’s appearances were, he argues, limited to ‘maintain an air of mystery’, while unionist meetings were made a ‘social occasion to remember, with large crowds, local bands and choirs and with the entertainment of theatrical parades, inspections, mounted escorts of lancers’. In the 1930s similar theatrical techniques were employed; unionist commemorations in this period were marked by distinctive ceremonial settings, formal speeches and, often, impressive dress. Loudspeakers were installed at the opening of parliament, and also at the unveiling of the Carson statue and during his funeral, in order to enable the audience to feel more intimately involved in the proceedings.

Historians of socialist thought have rated the Irish political philosopher and radical economist William Thompson (1778–1833) as the most influential theorist to emerge from the Owenite movement in early nineteenth-century Britain. Indeed, Gregory Claeys has judged him to be that movement's ‘most analytical and original thinker ... and a writer whose subsequent influence upon the history of socialist economic thought has been long established’. Furthermore, stressing Thompson's democratic values, Claeys insists that the Irishman ‘may rightfully be considered the founder of a more traditionally republican form of British democratic socialism’. While Robert Owen is remembered for his ambitious co-operative experiments, he was not a theoretical or deeply reflective writer and his intellectual legacy was minimal. The Corkborn Thompson, on the other hand, wrote assiduously on the theory and practice of early socialism, reputedly influenced Karl Marx and became a key figure in the history of feminism; nonetheless, our knowledge of this important Irish intellectual remains deficient.

This article examines one of the most intense divisions between Irish nationalists during the Northern Ireland conflict. The Provisional I.R.A. claimed to be waging a similar war to that of the I.R.A. of the revolutionary era (1916–1921); an assertion disputed by many. The argument was significant because all the major political forces in the Irish Republic honoured the memory of what they called the ‘old’ I.R.A. (defined in a popular school history book as ‘the men who fought for Irish freedom between 1916 and 1923’). They argued that in contrast to the Provisionals, the ‘old’ I.R.A. possessed a democratic mandate and avoided causing civilian casualties. Echoes of these disputes resurfaced during Sinn Féin's bid for the Irish presidency during 2011. Commemorating Denis Barry, an anti-treaty I.R.A. prisoner who died on hunger strike in 1923, Fianna Fáil leader Micheál Martin claimed that in contrast to men like Barry ‘those who waged war in Northern Ireland during the more recent Troubles were an impediment to Irish unity and directly responsible for causing distress and grief to many families. Yet they still seek to hijack history and the achievements of the noble people who fought for Ireland in our War of Independence … to justify their terrorist campaign.’

Christine Kinealy has claimed that ‘more has been written to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the Great Famine than was written in the whole period since 1850’. This is probably true. Anniversaries of major historical events now give rise to commemorative events ranging from scholarly conferences to the unveiling of memorial plaques, even to pop concerts. There appears to be a premium on being first in the field, and a corresponding waning of interest as attention shifts to the next anniversary. Harvard University organised its conference marking the bicentenary of the French Revolution in 1988. The summer of 1847 was taken as the cutoff point for the Irish government’s official commemoration of the Famine, in order to make way for the bicentenary of 1798, despite the fact that a majority of famine victims probably died after that date. Commemorating historical events boosts book sales, and publishers appear eager to respond to popular demand. Unfortunately the interest may prove too short-lived to afford time for major research, and many of the resulting books either recycle existing material or give the appearance of being in need of further work.

Agricultural co-operative societies were widely discussed across late nineteenth-century Europe as a potential solution to the problems of agricultural depression, land reform and rural poverty. In Finland, the agronomist Hannes Gebhard drew inspiration from examples across Europe in founding the Pellervo Society, to promote rural cooperation, in 1899. He noted that Ireland’s ‘tragic history’, its struggle for national self-determination and the introduction of co-operative dairies to tackle rural poverty, seemed to offer a useful example for Finnish reformers. This article explores the exchanges between Irish and Finnish co-operators around the turn of the century, and examines the ways in which the parallels between the two countries were constructed and presented by those involved in these exchanges. I will also consider the reasons for the divergence in the development of cooperation, so that even before the First World War it was Finland, not Ireland, that had begun to be regarded as ‘a model co-operative country’.

The Betting Act 1926 legalised cash betting in Ireland and led to the appearance, for the first time, of the legally regulated and licensed betting office. The introduction of this legislation was a pragmatic step, designed to eradicate the undesirable practice of street bookmaking. This article seeks to examine the operation of the legislation over the entire period of its enactment before it was superseded by the Betting Act 1931. What follows focuses on the bookmaker, their social background, geographical distribution, clientele and business practices. The industry, as it made its transition from its illegal to regulated forms, was characterised by both continuity and change. How bookmakers were perceived in the context of the puritanical atmosphere of the Free State is also considered. Attitudes to bookmakers depended on the scale of their involvement in the business, where they conducted their business, and who they conducted it with. Debates featuring these issues were spliced with contemporary concerns about class, gender and youth.

The publication in 1908 of The making of Ireland and its undoing, 1200–1600 by the London-based Irish historian, Alice Stopford Green, provoked a controversy that reveals much about the deepening political tensions at the heart of historical practice in the decade before 1916. Stopford Green took a deliberately controversial approach to the rewriting of medieval Ireland that triggered a bombardment of both positive and negative reactions. Supporters of Irish home rule applauded the work for its innovative analysis and contemporary relevance. But the book elicited a flurry of exasperation from a united front of ‘history men’, who dismissed Stopford Green and her work as ‘political’ and largely fictitious. Anticipating the reaction from a profession that was predominantly sympathetic to a unionist interpretation, Stopford Green had a well-prepared plan that harnessed both her gender and her transnational networks of influence to maximise the dissemination of her radical reimagining of the late medieval Gaelic world. By understanding these deeper strategies of defiance, Alice Stopford Green's history might be reclaimed as a key intervention in the structuring of both Ireland's national tradition and collective consciousness in preparation for independence.

On 11 June 1832 Humphrey O’Sullivan, a schoolteacher living in Callan, County Kilkenny, made the following entry in his diary:

O’Sullivan did not exaggerate. The events which he described were part of a remarkable popular panic which in the space of six days swept across the greater part of Ireland, from County Wexford in the south-east to County Donegal in the north-west, and from County Cork to the outskirts of Dublin city. It was an episode regarded by some contemporary observers with amused condescension, by others with deep alarm. For the modern historian it offers a brief but vivid insight into the mental world of a section of the catholic population in pre-Famine Ireland, and an opportunity to document in detail features of that mental world which are rarely reflected in conventional historical records.

The Maynooth question, which occupied so much public attention in 1845—which Harriet Martineau remarked was ‘the great political controversy of the year, the subject on which society seemed to be going mad’—in fact comprised several issues of unequal significance. As a political question, it lurched the conservative party to the point of grave division; it was a dress-rehearsal for the corn law split in the following year. It was also an incident in the Irish policy of the great Peel ministry, a part of the general reconstitution of higher education in Ireland, and an attempt, together with the charitable bequests act and the creation of the Queen’s Colleges, to conciliate moderate catholic opinion and syphon off some quantity of O’Connell’s abundant support.