The dominance of successive earls of Kildare in Anglo-Irish politics between 1470 and 1534 has prompted historians to label the period that of ‘the Kildare ascendancy’. This term denotes more than just the years in which the earls were in office; it includes assumptions about government policy, and the king’s relations with his Anglo-Irish magnates. From the later fourteenth century, the crown had normally maintained a deputy in Ireland directly from its English resources; and from his salary the deputy agreed to provide a retinue for the defence of the lordship. The scale of subvention and size of the retinue declined progressively, however, and the Irish revenues were too small to support a deputy lacking a substantial landed interest there: the king therefore sacrificed a degree of political control for financial economy and after 1478 relied almost exclusively on the local power of Kildare.

The English invasion of Ireland is of central importance to the interconnected histories of Britain and Ireland. Yet there is still disagreement over the agency of its ultimate sponsor, King Henry II. This article argues that from the very beginning of his reign as king of England, Henry utilised a rising tide of intolerance among Europe’s clerical elite for those holding non-standard beliefs and customs to secure reluctant papal approval for an invasion of Ireland. Once that invasion finally got underway a decade and a half later, members of his court portrayed Henry’s firm rule as the necessary precursor to the reform of Irish religion and culture. This propaganda sought its justification in the intellectual and cultural flourishing of the twelfth-century renaissance, which provided European commentators with newly-revived models of logic and classification. In was also carried out amidst Crusade-inspired justifications for the violent subjugation or killing of religious non-conformists. The essential point, however, is that these clerical descriptions did not necessarily reflect contemporary secular opinion. When works written for secular audiences in the vernacular are analysed, they present a much more nuanced image of Ireland and the Irish. Gone are the references to civilising or reforming missions, and the clear sense of cultural superiority. What remains, however, is the fundamental belief that strong, centralised order is required for the successful running of society. This is what the English invaders told themselves, and this is what informed the first generation of settlement in Angevin Ireland.

Why did a minority succeed in defeating the League of Nations? The failure of the United States senate to ratify President Woodrow Wilson’s peace treaty has invited explanation for half a century and more. Historians argue that the intraisigence of Wilson and of his outright opponents, the ‘Irreconcilables’, forced a sufficient number of senators to drop their support. They attribute significance to the sensitivities of Republicans and congressmen smarting under the wartime powers of a Democratic president. They have also, rather reluctantly, turned their attention to the senators’ constituents. In dealing with the latter, historians have emphasised the influence of Irish-Americans. The Irish contingent, Link argues, ‘were up in arms because Wilson had refused to press the cause of Irish independence in Paris and because the treaty allegedly benefited the hated English’. According to Adler, even those who considered that ‘American-Irishmen were asses’ conceded their influence: ‘each jackass had one vote and there were lots of them’. Stone agrees that the ‘Irish vote, always important in American politics, had added significance for the league fight’.

The history of eighteenth-century Ireland prior to the Volunteer movement is remarkably uneventful, but two episodes ruffled its political calm. They were the Wood's halfpence dispute of 1723–5, and the conflict between the Irish administration and parliament, 1753–6.

It was the extent and vehemence of the opposition experienced by the administration in 1723–5 that led to the evolution of the undertakers—powerful members of parliament who undertook to conduct government business through the house of commons in return for a share in the disposal of patronage.

The destruction of the Royalist field armies at Naseby and Langport in 1645 did not end the English Civil War. Althought the king had suffered irreversible military defeats, Parliament was unable to govern effectively while politically important towns and fortresses remained in enemy hands. To ensure political stability Parliament’s army was forced to besiege and reduce a large number of strongholds in England, Ireland and Scotland, a task that was not finally completed until the surrender of Galway in 1652. In particular the war in Ireland was to test the army’s siege-making capacity more severely than any previous campaign. To complete the political conquest of Britain and Ireland the army and its generals were compelled increasingly to practise an aspect of warfare that had been traditionally neglected by English soldiers. In contrast, siege warfare was an area in which their continental counterparts had excelled.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, European wars produced few set-piece battles. Conflicts were more frequently resolved by the assault and defence of fortified cities and towns. Consequently the art of siege warfare evolved rapidly. England’s political and military insularity during this period detached the country from advances in siege technology that had transformed the conduct of European warfare. No major siege had been undertaken by an English army since Henry VIII had invested Boulogne in 1544, and as there had been no siege of English towns or fortresses since medieval times, there had been little innovation in defensive fortifications. What improvements did occur were sporadic and unco-ordinated. In the sixteenth century a great fortress was built at Berwick-on-Tweed to counter Scottish infiltration and a number of coastal towns in the south-east were refortified against the threat of Spanish invasion. However, by the outbreak of civil war in 1642, even these were obsolete by contemporary continental standards.

Unlike some members of his profession, Richard Hadsor (c. 1570–1635), a Middle Temple lawyer born in Ireland, has not been caught in the spotlight which historians have aimed at the dramatic political confrontations in England and Ireland during the early seventeenth century. Nor, since he was not a recusant, has he attracted the attention of Irish historians of the legal profession. Although canvassed for both, he never attained a seat in a parliament or a place on the English or Irish judiciary. He had no part in the ‘inflation of honours’ as either a broker or a recipient. Although he spent the whole of his professional life in London, nothing is known of his English social circle — apart from a single reference in his will to Sir lohn Bramston, a fellow Templar — or the value of his private practice, and only a little (which is, however, suggestive) of his clientèle. He wrote nothing for publication. He had no legitimate offspring and, therefore, none of the successful lawyer’s usual inclination to create a substantial patrimony. In consequence, it is hardly surprising that he does not figure in the standard works of biography or even in a commemoration of nearly one thousand Middle Templars straddling several centuries. Nevertheless, in his own time Richard Hadsor was no nonentity, and he deserves to be rescued from an entirely posthumous obscurity by something more generous than a scholarly footnote. His career as a devoted royal servant spanned a period in which the Old English were being relentlessly excluded from high office in Ireland, yet as crown counsel for Irish affairs he succeeded in establishing a distinctive niche in the Whitehall bureaucracy.

The eighteenth century, a period when pain, suffering and illness was an ‘omnipresent threat’, saw medicine became more institutionally-based, increasingly state-funded, and wedded to a more scientific and analytical approach to disease. Voluntary hospitals, county infirmaries, medical supply dispensaries for the poor, the Royal Colleges of Physicians and Surgeons, and various medical guilds, schools and societies, were established or grew in importance. Collectively these institutions did much to influence how Ireland's main medical practitioners (physicians, surgeons, apothecaries) were educated, trained and organised, as well as the way the sick were cared for. While university-trained Irish physicians catered mostly for wealthy elites, the sick, rural poor usually only possessed the means or opportunity to engage the services of apothecaries or, occasionally, surgeons. Along with commercial, patent medicines, domestic remedies and self-medication, the sick had at their disposal an array of untrained, unregulated empirics, quacks, mountebanks, druggists, oculists, and faith and magical healers.

This article will examine the unique power structure that governed the lives of inmates of Ireland's borstal institution from its foundation in 1906 until the end of British rule in 1921. The borstal system was developed at the close of the nineteenth century at a time when penal administrators were searching for new and more enlightened modes of detention. Reform became something of a catchphrase and the borstal was one of two approaches, the other being the inebriate reformatory system that captured the imagination of Home Office officials. During this time there was a transition of leadership in the British penal system as those who subscribed to the more outdated idea of imprisonment without reform were replaced with more enlightened idealists. Borstal offenders in Ireland and Britain were subjected to an authoritarian structure unlike that experienced by prisoners within mainstream institutions of the penal systems in both countries. The division of power involved a three-way process in Clonmel borstal between 1906 and 1921. Three different but inextricably linked bodies, the General Prisons Board (G.P.B.), the institutional management, and the aftercare body, the Borstal Association of Ireland (B.A.I.), cooperated in a type of alliance with the aim of bringing about the reform of the juvenile-adult offender. Ultimate power rested in the hands of G.P.B. administrators but it is clear that governors, warders and aftercare officials had considerable influence in the decision-making process.

Historical scholarship has interpreted the Public Dance Halls Act, 1935 in a relatively uniform manner. Most works on the subject have emphasised the expanding influence of Catholic church authorities over dancing following the enactment of the legislation, as well as the increasing restrictions placed on the freedom of dancers. The act has been viewed as one element in a sequence of pieces of legislation passed by successive Free State governments that aimed to limit and control citizens, including the Censorship of Films Act, 1923, and the Censorship of Publications Act, 1929. Using previously unexamined Department of Justice records, this article questions the dominant interpretation of the Public Dance Halls Act. It analyses whether dances moved predominantly into parochial halls, as has been the common understanding, and also considers whether the supposedly harsh restrictions imposed on dancers were actually enforced or observed. The article also proposes that two largely unexamined facets of the legislation and its subsequent implementation be given more consideration. Safety concerns played a sizeable part in shaping dancing regulations, as did the interests and worries of local communities. The article concludes by suggesting that lacunae in the historiography of dance halls in the 1930s are emblematic of wider gaps in Irish social and cultural history and recommends avenues for future research.

Writing to a ‘Friend in Scotland’, in 1888, the Rev. Hugh Hanna declared: ‘it is the duty of Christian people in these lands to do the best they can for all parts of the United Kingdom’. Having explained why Irish Protestants were opposed to home rule, he then asked how any

Convents and convent-run institutions occupied an undefined legal space during the late nineteenth century. As homes for unmarried women, they combined religious ideas of holy seclusion with contemporary ideas of the feminine private sphere. However, women religious were also major providers of charity and welfare in Britain and Ireland, with many running charitable institutions. This brought them in closer contact with the state. As factory and workshop legislation towards the end of the nineteenth century expanded to include laundries, Catholic politicians used this ambiguous societal role to argue that Magdalene asylums deserved less inspection than for-profit laundries. In so doing, they both re-enforced nuns’ right to domestic privacy and promoted their operations as a social good. This created a legal exemption for convent-run laundries, which allowed them to operate with limited scrutiny or interference. An examination of the debates surrounding factory and workshop legislation from 1895 to 1907 exposes a precedent which continued well into the twentieth century.

Academic study of the development of Irish political parties has been hampered by a shortage of primary source material available to historians and political scientists. This is because the headquarters records of parties, where they have survived, are generally fragmentary and ill-organised, and because few national politicians or party organisers have left papers for research.

The shortage of primary sources on the major political parties is reflected in the standard academic works dealing with their development, from Maurice Manning’s Irish political parties (1972) and Michael Gallagher’s The Irish Labour Party in transition, 1957–1982 (1982) to Richard Dunphy’s recent The making of Fianna Fáil power in Ireland (1995). These are largely based on secondary sources, on interviews, and on the private papers of individual politicians. Where scholars have had access to party records, furthermore, it has generally been on an informal and improvised basis. It was in such circumstances that John Bowman, while preparing De Valera and the Ulster question, 1917–1973 (1982), and Dermot Keogh, while researching Ireland and Europe, 1919–1948 (1988), were given sight of some of the records of the Fianna Fail national executive committee and the parliamentary party.

The early years of Irish independence were years of precedent-setting decisions that shaped and moulded the new state. In a country just emerging from a struggle for independence and a devastating civil war, the army was one of the most vital and central institutions; and the relationship between the military and the elected civilian government was crucial. In fact, at the end of the civil war, a strong possibility existed that, unless the government acted quickly to establish its control, the army could remain the dominant force in Irish politics for years to come. The response to the Irish army mutiny of 1924, however, upheld and affirmed the supremacy of constitutional rule in Ireland.

When the Irish chieftains sent their ‘Remonstrance’ to Pope John XXII at the time of the Bruce invasion, they included among their indictments of English rule in Ireland the murder of Murchertach MacMurrough, the Irish king of Leinster, and of Art, his brother. The killer they named as ‘Geoffrey de Pencoyt’. This was evidently an event of some moment, to be classed with the more famous murder of Brian Rua O’Brien by Thomas de Clare in 1277 and the slaughter of the O’Conors of Offaly by Peter de Bermingham in 1305. Yet beyond the fact that the murder took place at Arklow on 21 July 1282, very little is known about it. The documents printed below shed new light on the event, suggesting strongly that it was politically motivated and inspired by the Isish justiciar, Stephen Fulbourne. They also furnish tlie crucial missing links between facts that have long been known, but which have not hitherto made coherent sense.