These verses were written by the Irish poet to express his grief at the impact of the Williamite victory at the battle of the Boyne and all that followed for Ireland. They were chosen two hundred years later by the historian Edmund Curtis to make clear his attitude towards Ireland’s past. In 1923, just after home rule was secured for what was officially known as Saorstát Éireann (Irish Free State), he published his history of medieval Ireland, and where a dedication would normally be printed he inserted ‘The Absentee Lordship’ and followed it with these verses. In doing this, Curtis left no doubt that in his view medieval Ireland was a lordship wrongfully attached to the English crown and that it should rightfully have been a kingdom under its own native dynastic ruler. For this he was subsequently denounced as unhistorical, and to this day, especially in the view of the so-called revisionists, he is commonly regarded as not only out of date, but dangerous as well. It was argued that Curtis used the medieval past to justify the emergence of a self-governing state in Ireland. To quote just one example, Steven Ellis, the best of the medieval revisionists, wrote in 1987 that ‘historians like Edmund Curtis concentrated on such topics as friction between the Westminster and Dublin governments, the Gaelic revival, the Great Earl uncrowned king of Ireland, the blended race and the fifteenth-century home rule movement’.

The general outlines of the Norman settlement of Leinster were laid downin the time of Strongbow. At the time of the Norman invasion that part of Leinster which was to become Kildare was divided into four main tribal territories, described as cantreds under the Normans: Offelan in the north; Offaly to the north-west and centre; Omurethy in the south; and Leix to the south-west.

Offelan is now represented by the baronies of North and South Salt, Ikeathy and Oughterany, and Clane (formerly Otymy), which were granted to Adam de Hereford, who shared his grant with his brothers John and Richard; and North and South Naas, which were granted to Maurice Fitz Gerald, whose son, William, also divided his grant with his brother Gerald, the ancestor of the earls of Kildare.

In several respects the great famine revolutionized Irish overseas emigration. Numbers rose abruptly from an annual average of some 50,000 in the early ’forties to more than 100,000 in 1846, more than 200,000 in 1847 and an aggregate of well over one and a quarter millions in the six succeeding seasons. A relatively small, steady and considered emigration was replaced, especially during 1846-9, by a headlong outrush, sometimes more a hasty, even hysterical flight of economic refugees than a population movement as ordinarily understood. Unprecedented disasters overtook these emigrations, as epidemics swept over a passenger trade still painfully adjusting its shipping and standards to the new phenomenon and the growing predominance of Liverpool as the point of embarkation.

In a pleasant popular account of the owners of Gormanston Castle and of some documents connected with them, recently published by Father Aubrey Gwynn, there is one matter upon which comment seems desirable: this is the author's restatement of the late Miss M. V. Clarke's hypothesis regarding the Irish Modus tenendi parliamentum or rather one copy of it, that exemplified in 1419. That a historian so learned and critical as Fr. Gwynn should accept this hypothesis without reserve, and indeed hold up Miss Clarke's essays as ‘ models of their kind ’, suggests that they are capable of a good deal of mischief.

At least twice during the first half of the eighteenth century criminal prosecutions were undertaken in Ireland which gripped the public imagination. The first of these celebrated cases, involving the trial for rape, conviction and subsequent execution of the Cork Jacobite James Cotter in 1720, has also come to hold an extraordinary fascination for historians of eighteenth-century Ireland. Few writers concerned with early Georgian Ireland have been able to avoid its allure. For the most part, however, the incident has been referred to only fleetingly, employed variously as a motif of religious or political conflict or ethnic alienation. For Kevin Whelan, it is illustrative of the ‘conflict between old and new families’ in Munster, and indicative of a ‘partisan popish paranoia’ on the part of the province’s Protestant rulers. For Louis Cullen, it was ‘part of the legacy of the 1690s’, yet an event which would provide ‘the spark which set alight the sectarian tensions in Munster in the 1760s’. Other commentators have seen the case as one in which ‘a trumped-up charge’ was laid, for political purposes, against a man ‘generally believed’ to be innocent. A few have offered more guarded conclusions. Thomas Bartlett ventures only that this was ‘certainly a sensational event’. James Kelly both recognises the unique circumstances of Cotter’s case and suggests that it is ‘unlikely that he was the victim of judicial assassination’. S. J. Connolly goes further, stressing that Cotter had ‘quite clearly been guilty of rape’. However, the fullest and most recent examination of the case, in an essay written by Breandán Ó Buachalla in an ‘attempt to correlate a specific literary text to the career of a specific political activist’, returns us firmly to the recurrent context of Catholic Jacobite resistance and Protestant collusion.

The poet and novelist Francis Stuart’s sojourn in Germany during the Second World War and his broadcasting activities for the Nazis remain a cnámh spairne among historians and journalists alike. Assessments of his radio talks range from that of his biographer J.H. Natterstad, who described them as being of ‘a literary or semi-literary’ character, to that of Kevin Myers, who equated the broadcasts with ‘voluntary siding with the most bestial régime in the history of civilisation’. In October 1997 a television documentary during which Stuart was quoted as saying that ‘the Jew was always the worm that got into the rose and sickened it’ triggered off a long-running controversy in the letters pages of the Irish Times. Some prominent intellectuals rushed to Stuart’s defence, arguing, for example, that the worm metaphor was indeed a positive one, representing the ‘hidden, unheroic and critical’. On the other hand, leaving aside the question whether or not Stuart was an antisemite, two German emigrants to Ireland argued that anyone, including Stuart, ‘who lived in Germany at that time, any person working for the Ministry of Propaganda had to be an active Nazi sympathiser’. From a more scholarly perspective, David O’Donoghue has recorded that in his radio talks Stuart was neither anti-Jewish nor anti-Russian, while Dermot Keogh suggested that Stuart’s broadcasts from Germany in fact mirrored the content of antisemitic publications in Ireland at the time. Stuart himself denied ever having backed the Nazis, and rejected the charge of antisemitism in the R.T.É. interview broadcast in January 1998: ‘I never supported that régime.’

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.

In an earlier article in Irish Historical Studies the present author argued that the beginnings of the Irish Free State’s campaign against venereal disease were caught up in a politics of prostitution that mobilised nationalist, republican and post-colonial sentiments, revolving around the struggle between military and civilian authority, and invoking the moral arbitration of the Catholic church. Susannah Riordan’s recent response has clarified the administrative history of interdepartmental inquiries into the threat posed by venereal diseases, setting concerns over the role of prostitution in propagating disease within the context of the wider public health programme. She properly identifies inquiry references to ‘prophylaxis’ with chemical disinfection following exposure to infection, and rightly separates the report filed by Major Donal Carroll, the army’s chief sanitary officer, from that of Dr Robert Percy McDonnell, Medical Inspector of the Department of Local Government and Public Health.

The great Anglo-Irish historian, W.E.H. Lecky, was born in Dublin in 1838. He is best remembered for his volumes on Ireland and England in the eighteenth century (begun in the 1870s and completed in the 1890s). His European reputation had already been made with his History of the rise and inpuence of the spirit of rationalism in Europe (1865), and his History of European morals from Augustus to Charlemagne (1869).

On 16 February 1966 James Camlin Beckett, who by that time had taught in Queen’s University Belfast for twenty-one years, confided to his diary that he found it ‘hard to stay awake for an hour long lecture’ and wondered whether ‘we also go to sleep without knowing it, when we are giving a lecture instead of receiving it’. In this, the first of the lectures commemorating Beckett’s achievement, I propose — one hopes in a passably alert state — to examine three central aspects of his life and convictions: his politics and sense of national identity, his religious life, and finally his philosophy of history. The lecture draws upon Beckett’s writings, and on his papers and diaries (which are at present housed in the Public Record Office of Northern Ireland); other Beckett letters, some in private hands, have also been used.

This article will explore two relatively neglected features of the Irish Republican Army’s (I.R.A.) guerrilla war between 1919 and 1921: internal discipline and forced participation. The gravest disciplinary measure was the death penalty and I.R.A. orders directed that it should apply to members guilty of certain offences against the army. While British army and police officials often insisted that the I.R.A. executed its own without scruple, the death penalty was rarely carried out in practice. General Headquarters (G.H.Q.) was largely unsuccessful in applying a standard disciplinary code and there was also a general inconsistency and lack of rigour in applying other punitive measures for less serious offences. On a related theme, it was not uncommon for soldiers to be ‘conscripted’ or forced to take part in operations under duress during irregular warfare. In the Irish case, this idea has rarely been discussed. It will be argued here that, along with the death penalty and strict punitive measures, forced participation was an uncomfortable idea and often counter-productive in practice. The nature and extent of discipline and coercion was also firmly dictated by local conditions and personalities.