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.

The Irish workhouse has had a troubled history, attracting mostly negative commentary from the inception of the national poor law system after 1838 to the final abolition of the poor law in Northern Ireland in 1948. The popular historian of the institution opens his account with the bald statement that ‘the workhouse was the most feared and hated institution ever established in Ireland’. While one might quibble with this (the penitentiaries and asylums of the nineteenth century were surely as much feared, and perhaps with more reason; the record of the industrial schools and Magdalene asylums has more recently attracted the appalled attention of Irish society), the statement contains a kernel of truth. Designed with the deterrent principle of ‘less eligibility’ to the forefront, and irrevocably associated with the horrors of mass mortality during the Great Famine, the workhouses became in Irish popular memory (and in the bulk of historical commentary) associated with the suffering and degradation of their inmates. Nevertheless, the early history of the poor law and its associated workhouses is more complex than this suggests and deserves closer attention.

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.

Control over the media is a key lever of state power. During the First World War and immediate post-war period, British officials in Ireland exercised this power as they attempted to curtail radical Irish nationalism. While state control over the media can be wielded in direct form (usually through suppression), it frequently manifests itself more subtly and indirectly, through moderate censorship for example, especially when the state in question has a democratic dimension and liberal traditions or pretensions. In Ireland in the period covered by this article state interference with the media was both direct and indirect, partially mirroring the dual policy of coercion and conciliation that marked the final years of British governance over the whole island. Neither strategy succeeded in hobbling republican political advance, however, and censorship and suppression came to be regarded by radicals as irritants and obstacles that could be overcome.

The phenomenon of ‘unknown’ infant deaths addressed in this article was first explored in the course of research on fatalities arising from political violence during the Irish revolution of 1916–1921. Our data are derived from the General Register of Death Indices (G.R.D.I.), held in the General Register Office, Dublin, which are organised alphabetically, and which form an official record of deaths registered either by relatives of the deceased or by medical personnel. When infant ‘unknown’ fatalities were extracted to form a discrete database they showed a curious gender disparity. There were 100 male infant fatalities recorded for every seventy-eight females in the thirty-two counties over the five-year period. On extending the study to 1932, the same ratio was prevalent in the overall dataset of 895 ‘unknown infants’ drawn from the G.R.D.I. (a dataset which excludes the six counties of Northern Ireland for the period from1922). Initial research into the gender imbalance opened out wider questions concerning social mores regarding illegitimacy, and the extent of medical and lay knowledge of how newborn infants might be brought to death.

During the First World War, Irish society experienced power struggles between civil authority, military governance, the constitutional nationalist establishment, and the emerging Republican movement. In the unstable wartime environment, political and social variables sparked intense controversies that mirrored competition for control over the Irish public. Inspired by the Easter Rising and emboldened by growing public disillusionment with the war, Republicans harnessed these eruptions to help fuel their attempt to overthrow Dublin Castle.

This study explores how power over primary and post-primary education was contested between a traditional Catholic elite and the Irish state during a period of far-reaching educational reform. The interaction between successive ministers for education and the Catholic bishops was a constant feature of the politics of educational expansion, but it was an uneasy and volatile relationship, which sometimes shaded into hostility. Power was contested between a newlyassertive Department of Education and the clerical managers or religious orders who traditionally controlled the schools. The Catholic Church did not react to policy change as a monolithic entity: divisions emerged within the traditional elite under the strain of adapting to unprecedented policy change, underlined by significant tensions between the bishops and the Catholic managerial authorities. A traditional consensus on the predominance of the Catholic Church in education disappeared, to be replaced by a new balance of power in which the state both contested with traditional stakeholders and collaborated uneasily with them to advance educational reform.