The central weakness of the conventional narrative and the
strength of Redmond’s departure from it rests on the assumption that religious
division was somehow natural to Ireland. In reality, the decades after 1603
witnessed a profound social revolution. Following its famine-driven victory in
the Nine Years’ War, the English state began systematically transforming Irish
society through plantation. Ulster, confiscated after the Flight of the Earls,
became the laboratory where land, labour, and political authority shifted from
Gaelic and Old English proprietors to a new class of English and Scottish
undertakers, servitors, and London financiers. Protestantism identified this
class as loyal to the Crown, while Catholicism identified those dispossessed by
it. Sectarian identity was not the cause of conflict but the ideological form
through which a deeper struggle over property and power was expressed.
Redmond’s attention to symbolic violence the burning of Bibles,
the stripping of ministers, and the desecration of churches is valuable. But
symbols do not exist apart from material relations. The Protestant bible burned
in Tyrone belonged to a settler occupying land taken from Irish families within
living memory. The desecrated church was often a former Catholic church whose
revenues the established Church of Ireland had seized. The humiliated minister
was a tithe-collector and local agent of the colonial state. These acts were
not simply religious gestures; they were political attacks on the apparatus of
expropriation. Treating them primarily as expressions of religious hatred risks
mistaking form for content.
The 1641 Rebellion, the focus of Redmond’s study,
demonstrates this dynamic with particular clarity. The Depositions, eight
thousand witness statements collected by a colonial administration preparing
for reconquest, are filled with accounts of atrocity. They document genuine
horrors, including the drowning of Protestants at Portadown, but they also
served a political purpose: justifying the largest land confiscation in Irish
history. The Adventurers’ Act of 1642 turned the reconquest into a speculative
investment scheme, pledging millions of acres of Irish land as security. Here,
the connection between colonial violence and capitalist accumulation appears in
its starkest form.
Redmond rightly places Ireland within a broader Atlantic and
European framework, but this positioning calls for a more radical conclusion.
Ireland was not peripheral to the emergence of the capitalist world system; it
was central. Plantation, expropriation, and sectarianisation were mechanisms of
primitive accumulation, just as much as the dispossession of Indigenous peoples
in Virginia or the enslavement of Africans in Barbados. The sectarian order
forged in the seventeenth century was not an aberration but a structural
product of colonial capitalism.
The legacy of this process endures. Partition, Stormont’s
sectarian architecture, the Troubles, and even the consociational logic of the
Good Friday Agreement all bear the imprint of the seventeenth-century colonial
order. Ruling elites created sectarian identities and reproduced them because
they served property. Understanding their origins means recognising that they
can be overcome not through appeals to reconciliation or shared identity, but
by dismantling the social relations that produced them. Redmond’s book
contributes to this understanding, but its own evidence demands a more
explicitly materialist reading. Sectarianism was made. And what has been made
can be unmade.
The Plantation as Social Revolution
Redmond’s most valuable contribution is her rejection of the
lazy media cliché that Catholics and Protestants have hated each other “since
time immemorial.” She rightly places the emergence of sectarian division in the
decades following 1603, when the English state, having just secured a
famine-driven victory in the Nine Years’ War, undertook the most radical social
transformation in Irish history: the Ulster plantation. The Ulster plantation
was not a religious mission that merely happened to involve land.
It was a massive act of expropriation. Plantation was
neither a cultural encounter nor a theological dispute nor a clash of
identities. It was the violent transfer of the means of production- land,
livestock, rents, and tithes- from Gaelic and Old English proprietors to a new
class of English and Scottish undertakers, servitors, and London financiers.
Protestantism served as the ideological badge of this rising colonial
bourgeoisie, while Catholicism marked the dispossessed. Sectarian identity was
not the cause of the conflict; it was the form through which a deeper
antagonism over property and power was expressed.
This is the decisive point Redmond approaches but never
fully grasps. Her emphasis on symbols Bibles,
churches, clerical vestments risks treating religion as an autonomous force
rather than as the ideological expression of a colonial social order. Symbols
matter, but they do not float free of material relations. The burning of a
Protestant bible in Tyrone was not simply an attack on scripture; it was an
attack on the settler who held land taken within living memory from Irish
families. The desecration of a Protestant church was an assault on an
institution whose revenues had been seized from Catholic parishes and
redirected to the established Church of Ireland. Stripping a minister was
humiliating a tithe‑collector and local agent of the colonial state, often
himself a beneficiary of confiscated land. These acts were not random eruptions
of religious hatred. They were political attacks on the apparatus of
expropriation.
To treat them chiefly as expressions of sectarian animus is
to mistake form for content. Religion was not the engine of the conflict; it
was the language through which struggles over land, labour, and survival were
waged. In an age when the Church dominated intellectual life, every social
struggle necessarily assumed a theological form.
The insurgents of 1641 believed their actions had sacred
meaning, but their material aim was to reverse dispossession and reclaim the
foundations of life. Redmond’s symbolic interpretation captures the surface of
these events, but not their underlying logic. The plantation system had created
a society in which religious identity corresponded directly to property
relations: Protestant meant proprietor, while Catholic meant dispossessed.
Violence against Protestant symbols was therefore violence against the colonial
order itself.
This is why sectarianism cannot be understood as a timeless
cultural division. It was forged in the crucible of plantation, sharpened by
famine, and intensified by the tri‑kingdom crisis that culminated in the
English Revolution. The symbolic dimension of violence matters, but only when
situated within the political economy that gave those symbols their explosive
charge. Without that materialist grounding, the history of seventeenth‑century
Ireland risks being reduced to a drama of competing identities rather than
recognised as a struggle over land, power, and the violent birth of a colonial
capitalist order.
1641: Class War in Theological Form
Redmond’s focus on the 1641 Rebellion is justified. The Depositions'
eight thousand witness statements, overwhelmingly Protestant, form one of the
most revealing archives of early modern colonialism. They are saturated with
fear, atrocity narrative, and the desperate insistence on Protestant innocence
and Catholic barbarism. But they also served as a political instrument.
Compiled by a state preparing for reconquest, they documented settler losses,
substantiated compensation claims, and justified future confiscation. Their
very structure reveals their purpose: to create a moral and evidentiary
foundation for the wholesale transfer of Irish land into Protestant hands. In
this sense, the Depositions are not simply a record of violence; they are part
of the machinery of colonial expropriation.
This is why the central interpretive question cannot be
avoided: were the insurgents of 1641 fighting about religion, or was religion
the form through which they expressed a struggle over land, power, and survival?
In an age when the Church dominated intellectual life, every social movement
necessarily took theological form. The Irish insurgents believed in the sacral
meaning of their acts. Still, the objective content of their struggle was the
attempt to reverse expropriation and reclaim the material basis of life. The
theological language of rebellion, the ritualised attacks on Protestant
symbols, the invocation of divine justice: all expressed a deeper conflict
rooted in the violent restructuring of property relations that plantation had
imposed.
The drowning of Protestants at Portadown, endlessly
reproduced in Protestant martyrology, was horrific. But its political function
was equally clear: it became the ideological justification for the largest land
confiscation in Irish history. The atrocity stories of 1641 were not merely
accounts of suffering; they were instruments of policy. They provided the moral
vocabulary through which the English Parliament passed the Adventurers’ Act of
1642, turning the reconquest of Ireland into a speculative investment scheme.
Investors subscribed funds to suppress the rebellion in exchange for future
title to Irish land. In this way, the atrocity narrative became the bridge
between violence and capital accumulation. The stories gathered by the
commissioners, amplified by pamphleteers such as Sir John Temple, were the fuel
for Cromwell’s massacres at Drogheda and Wexford, and for the Cromwellian
settlement that transferred most Irish land to Protestant ownership.
Redmond acknowledges the symbolic dimension of violence but
underplays its economic logic. The rebellion was not a sectarian spasm. It erupted
from a class struggle shaped by plantation, intensified by famine, and
sharpened by the tri‑kingdom crisis. The insurgents were not driven by timeless
religious hatred but by the memory of dispossession, the experience of
exclusion, and the immediate threat of further confiscation. The symbols they
attacked Bibles, churches, clerical
vestments were not abstract emblems of Protestant identity but concrete
expressions of colonial power. To burn a bible was to strike at the ideological
justification for expropriation. To desecrate a church was to assault an
institution whose revenues had been seized from Catholic parishes. To strip a
minister was to humiliate a tithe‑collector and local agent of the colonial
state.
The rebellion must therefore be understood as a political
and economic uprising expressed in religious form. Its violence was shaped by
the material conditions created by plantation: the loss of land, the imposition
of rents and tithes, the exclusion from office, and the constant threat of
further confiscation. Redmond’s symbolic reading captures the surface of these
events but not their underlying logic. Without a materialist grounding, the
history of 1641 risks being reduced to a drama of competing identities rather
than recognised as a struggle over land, power, and the violent birth of a
colonial capitalist order.
Ireland and the English Revolution
No account of 1641 can be adequate without situating Ireland
within the English Revolution. Redmond gestures toward this but does not
integrate it into her analysis, and the omission is decisive. The rebellion did
not unfold on a static Irish stage; it erupted at the precise moment when the
English state was being torn apart by a revolutionary crisis that redefined the
relationship between property, sovereignty, and political power across all
three Stuart kingdoms. To treat 1641 as an insular religious convulsion is to
miss the structural forces that shaped it and the colonial logic that
determined its outcome.
The English bourgeoisie, mobilised through Parliament, was
the most implacable enemy of Irish Catholics. This was not because of theology,
but because Irish Catholic landownership blocked the consolidation of a new
social order grounded in private property, commercial expansion, and
parliamentary sovereignty. The Adventurers’ Act of 1642, a speculative
investment scheme that pledged 2.5 million acres of Irish land as security, is
one of the clearest examples in world history of colonial conquest as primitive
accumulation. Investors financed the reconquest in advance, expecting land as
repayment. The Irish Catholic population became collateral in a financial
instrument. Here the relationship between violence and capital is laid bare:
atrocity narrative provided the moral justification, parliamentary legislation
provided the legal mechanism, and military conquest provided the enforcement.
Ireland became the terrain on which the English Revolution exported its
contradictions.
The Confederation of Kilkenny, often romanticised in
nationalist historiography, must be understood within this framework. It was
not a proto‑national movement but a coalition of Catholic landowners seeking to
preserve property and religion through negotiation with the Crown. Its internal
divisions Old English grandees versus
Gaelic leaders and clergy were class divisions, not cultural ones. The Old
English elite, long integrated into the structures of English rule, sought
accommodation with Charles I to secure their estates. The Gaelic leadership,
shaped by more recent and more brutal experiences of dispossession, pushed for
a harder line. These tensions reflected differing relationships to land, power,
and the English state, not differing “identities.” The Confederation’s failure
was not the failure of Irish unity; it was the failure of a landed class trying
to defend its interests amid a revolutionary transformation that rendered its
position untenable.
Redmond’s narrative stops at 1649, but her evidence points
directly to Cromwell. His invasion was not a religious crusade; it was the
military enforcement of a capitalist revolution whose domestic progress was
inseparable from colonial brutality abroad. The same Parliament that abolished
monarchy and executed a king also authorised the reconquest of Ireland as a
financial venture. Cromwell’s massacres at Drogheda and Wexford were justified
explicitly as vengeance for 1641. Still, their real function was to break
resistance to a land settlement designed to secure the interests of the
Adventurers, the New Model Army, and the emergent Protestant Ascendancy. The
Cromwellian settlement that followed transferred most Irish land to Protestant
ownership, completing the expropriation process that plantation had begun.
Situating 1641 within the English Revolution is therefore
not an optional historiographical flourish; it is key to understanding the
rebellion’s causes, course, and consequences. Ireland was not a peripheral
theatre but a central arena in which the English bourgeois revolution realised
its colonial dimension. Redmond’s evidence demonstrates this repeatedly, even
if her interpretive framework does not. A materialist analysis reveals what a
symbolic or identity‑centred approach cannot: that the violence of 1641 and the
violence of Cromwell were two moments in a single process, the violent birth of
a capitalist order whose foundations were laid in expropriated Irish soil.
Ireland Between Two Worlds
One of Redmond’s strengths is her insistence on Ireland’s
Atlantic and European context. But this can be pushed much further, because
Ireland in the seventeenth century was not an isolated theatre of religious
conflict but a nodal point in a rapidly expanding imperial world. Ulster and
Virginia were twin laboratories of English colonialism. The same ideological
justifications barbarism, idleness, the civilising mission were deployed in
both. In Virginia, Indigenous peoples were described as wandering,
unproductive, and in need of English discipline; in Ulster, Gaelic society was
condemned as disorderly, backwards, and incapable of proper husbandry. In both
cases, the ideological vocabulary served the same purpose: to legitimise the
violent transfer of land to English proprietors and to naturalise the emerging
colonial order.
The parallels were not accidental. Many of the same
individuals, companies, and intellectual currents shaped both projects. The
City of London’s livery companies, which took over the plantation of
Londonderry, were simultaneously investing in transatlantic ventures. English
promoters of colonisation wrote treatises that moved seamlessly between Ireland
and America, treating both as spaces where English civility could be imposed
upon supposedly degenerate populations. The plantation of Ulster and the settlement
of Virginia were two fronts of a single imperial expansion, driven by the same
economic imperatives and justified by the same ideological repertoire.
At the same time, Irish Catholic elites were deeply embedded
in the Counter‑Reformation world. They served in Spanish tercios, in the armies
of France, and in Imperial forces during the Thirty Years’ War. Irish colleges
in Salamanca, Louvain, and Rome produced clergy who moved between Ireland and
continental Europe, carrying with them the intellectual and political currents
of the wider Catholic world. Ireland was therefore not simply a colony but a
crossroads: a site where English imperialism collided with continental Catholic
power, where global confessional conflict intersected with local struggles over
land and authority.
This global positioning reveals a deeper truth: Ireland was
not peripheral. It was central to the violent birth of the capitalist world
system. Plantation, expropriation, and sectarianisation were not anomalies;
they were characteristic mechanisms of primitive accumulation. Marx’s
description of primitive accumulation the forcible separation of producers from
the means of production, the creation of a landless labouring class, and the
use of state violence to restructure property relations fits Ireland with
almost uncanny precision. The Ulster plantation was one of the earliest large‑scale
experiments in this process. It created a new class of Protestant proprietors,
dispossessed a Catholic majority, and established a colonial state apparatus
capable of enforcing the new order.
Sectarianisation was part of this machinery. It provided the
ideological framework through which expropriation could be justified, and
resistance delegitimised. By fusing religious identity with property relations-
Protestant as proprietor, Catholic as dispossessed- the colonial state created
a durable social division it could mobilise to stabilise its rule. Sectarianism
was not an unfortunate by‑product of plantation; it was a structural outcome.
It helped produce a population divided against itself, unable to unite against
the colonial order, and perpetually vulnerable to manipulation by ruling
elites.
Seen in this light, the seventeenth century becomes not
merely a period of Irish turmoil but a foundational moment in the formation of
global capitalism. The techniques of expropriation, the ideological languages
of civilisation and barbarism, and the fusion of religious identity with
property relations were all exported from Ireland to other colonial theatres.
Ireland was both a proving ground and a model. To understand its history is to
understand the origins of a world system built on dispossession, coercion, and
the violent remaking of social relations.
The Long Shadow of 1603–49
Redmond argues that the period forged long‑lasting legacies.
She is right. The Protestant Ascendancy, the Penal Laws, the Act of Union, the
partition of 1921, the sectarian architecture of Stormont, the Troubles, and
even the consociational logic of the Good Friday Agreement all bear the imprint
of the seventeenth‑century colonial order. The structures created in the
aftermath of plantation a landed Protestant elite, a dispossessed Catholic
majority, and a state apparatus designed to maintain that hierarchy did not
simply vanish with time. Successive political regimes reproduced, adapted, and
modernised them. The Ascendancy became the governing class of the eighteenth
century; the Penal Laws codified the exclusion of Catholics from property and
power; the Union entrenched Protestant dominance within a wider imperial
framework. Partition in 1921 then froze these relations into a new
constitutional form, creating a Northern statelet whose institutions were
designed to ensure permanent Protestant control. Stormont’s architecture was
not an accident of political negotiation but the direct descendant of the colonial
order established in the seventeenth century.
The Troubles, too, cannot be understood without this
genealogy. The conflict was not the eruption of ancient hatreds but the violent
expression of unresolved colonial contradictions. The spatial segregation of
communities, differential access to housing and employment, policing
structures, and political institutions all reflected the long shadow of
plantation. Even the Good Friday Agreement, often celebrated as a triumph of
peacebuilding, bears the imprint of this history. Its consociational logic,
dividing political representation into “unionist” and “nationalist” blocs, institutionalises
the very sectarian categories forged in the seventeenth century. It stabilises
peace by managing division rather than overcoming it, a solution that reflects
the depth of the historical structures it seeks to contain.
But the lesson is not fatalistic. Ruling elites created
sectarian identities and reproduced them because they served property. They
were never spontaneous expressions of popular feeling; they were political
technologies. From the seventeenth century onward, elites used sectarian
division to fragment the labouring population, prevent unified resistance, and
secure the social order. Whenever workers in Ireland have united the Belfast
dock strike of 1907, when James Larkin led Protestant and Catholic workers
together; the Outdoor Relief riots of 1932, when unemployed workers marched
across sectarian lines the state responded by stoking division. Employers,
politicians, and clerical authorities alike intervened to reassert the
boundaries between communities. Sectarianism has always been a strategy of
rule, not an inevitable feature of Irish society.
This is why the history Redmond describes, despite its
limitations, contains a profoundly emancipatory lesson. Sectarianism is not
eternal. It is historical. It was forged in specific circumstances: plantation,
expropriation, colonial administration, and the needs of an emerging capitalist
order. What was made can be unmade. The same forces that created sectarian
division the restructuring of property relations, the consolidation of state
power, the ideological mobilisation of religion can be confronted and
dismantled. The moments when workers united across sectarian lines show that
the divisions are neither natural nor insurmountable. They are maintained
because they serve the interests of those who benefit from a divided
population.
To understand sectarianism historically is to recognise its
contingency. Recognising its contingency is recognising the possibility of its
abolition. The seventeenth century forged the structures that still shape Irish
society, but it also reveals the means by which those structures can be
overcome: through the collective action of those whose lives have been shaped and constrained by the
Beyond Identity, Toward Social Relations
Redmond’s book is a serious scholarly intervention. But its
interpretive frame, privileging identity, symbol, and religious meaning, reflects
the dominant academic retreat from class analysis. This retreat is not unique
to her work; it is characteristic of much contemporary historiography, which
has become increasingly wary of structural explanations and increasingly
enamoured of cultural ones. Yet the evidence she assembles cries out for a
materialist reading. Sectarianism was forged in the crucible of plantation,
expropriation, and capitalist expansion. It emerged not from competing
identities but from the violent restructuring of property relations that
transformed Ireland in the seventeenth century. To treat sectarianism primarily
as symbolic conflict is to mistake the surface for the depth, the ideological
form for the social content.
A genuinely scientific history must strip away the
mythologies of all sides and reveal the social relations underneath. This means
recognising that the plantation was not simply a cultural encounter but a
massive act of class reorganisation: the transfer of land, rents, tithes, and
political authority from one social group to another. It means understanding
that the 1641 Rebellion was not a spontaneous eruption of religious hatred but
a political uprising expressed in theological language. It means acknowledging
that the Cromwellian conquest was not divine vengeance but the military
enforcement of a capitalist revolution whose domestic achievements were
inseparable from colonial brutality abroad. Redmond’s work, despite its
limitations, provides ample material for such a project. Her detailed
engagement with the Depositions, her attention to symbolic violence, and her
insistence on Ireland’s Atlantic and European context offer rich evidence for
deeper analysis, even if she does not pursue it herself.
The challenge, then, is not to dismiss Redmond’s approach
but to push beyond the categories in which it is framed. Identity, symbol, and
religious meaning are important, but they are not primary. They are the
ideological expressions of underlying social relations. A bible burned in
Tyrone was not merely a religious affront; it was an attack on the settler who
held confiscated land. A church desecrated was not simply a violation of sacred
space; it was a blow against an institution whose revenues had been seized from
Catholic parishes. A minister stripped was not merely a humiliation of a
religious figure; it was the punishment of a tithe‑collector and local agent of
the colonial state. These acts cannot be understood without reference to the
material conditions that gave them meaning.
To recover those conditions is the task of historical
materialism. It requires situating Ireland within the global processes of
primitive accumulation, recognising the role of colonial violence in the birth
of capitalism, and tracing how sectarian identities were constructed to
stabilise a new social order. It requires seeing the seventeenth century not as
a drama of competing religious communities but as a moment in the formation of
a world system built on dispossession, coercion, and the remaking of social
relations.
Redmond’s book, for all its interpretive limitations, offers
the raw material for such a reconstruction. It documents the violence, fear,
symbolic acts, and political manoeuvres that accompanied the transformation of
Irish society. What it does not do, and what must be done, is to place these
phenomena within the broader logic of colonial capitalism. That task falls to
readers willing to push beyond the cultural frame and recover the structural
forces that shaped the period. A scientific history must reveal not only what
happened but why it happened and, in doing so, illuminate the social relations
that continue to shape Ireland today.
Bibliography
Primary Sources
- 1641
Depositions, Trinity College Dublin, MS 833–MS 849.
- Temple,
Sir John. The Irish Rebellion: Or, An History of the Beginnings and
First Progress of the General Rebellion Raised within the Kingdom of
Ireland, 1641. London, 1646.
- Acts
and Ordinances of the Interregnum, 1642–1660. Ed. C.H. Firth and R.S.
Rait. London: HMSO, 1911.
- The
Adventurers’ Act, 1642 (16 Car. I c. 33).
- Cromwell,
Oliver. Letters and Speeches. Ed. Thomas Carlyle. London: Chapman
& Hall, 1845.
Secondary Sources: Ireland, Plantation, and 1641
- Canny,
Nicholas. Making Ireland British, 1580–1650. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2001.
- Lennon,
Colm. Sixteenth Century Ireland: The Incomplete Conquest. Dublin:
Gill & Macmillan, 1994.
- Ó
Siochrú, Micheál. God’s Executioner: Oliver Cromwell and the Conquest
of Ireland. London: Faber & Faber, 2008.
- Perceval-Maxwell,
Michael. The Outbreak of the Irish Rebellion of 1641. Montreal:
McGill–Queen’s University Press, 1994.
- Gibney,
John. The Shadow of a Year: The 1641 Rebellion in Irish History and
Memory. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2013.
- Clarke,
Aidan. “The 1641 Depositions.” In Sources for the History of Irish
Civilisation, ed. R. Dudley Edwards. Dublin: Cork University Press,
1970.
- Ohlmeyer,
Jane. Ireland from Independence to Occupation, 1641–1660.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995.
- Cunningham,
Bernadette. The World of Geoffrey Keating: History, Myth and Religion
in Seventeenth-Century Ireland. Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2000.
Atlantic, Colonial, and Comparative Context
- Armitage,
David. The Ideological Origins of the British Empire. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2000.
- Elliott,
J.H. Empires of the Atlantic World: Britain and Spain in America,
1492–1830. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006.
- Horn,
James. A Land as God Made It: Jamestown and the Birth of America.
New York: Basic Books, 2005.
- Andrews,
Kenneth. Trade, Plunder and Settlement: Maritime Enterprise and the
Genesis of the British Empire, 1480–1630. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1984.
English Revolution and Class Conflict
- Hill,
Christopher. The World Turned Upside Down: Radical Ideas During the
English Revolution. London: Penguin, 1972.
- Hill,
Christopher. The English Revolution 1640. London: Lawrence &
Wishart, 1940.
- Rees,
John. The Leveller Revolution. London: Verso, 2016.
- Morrill,
John. Revolt in the Provinces: The People of England and the Tragedies
of War, 1630–1648. London: Longman, 1976.
Marxist Theory and Primitive Accumulation
- Marx,
Karl. Capital, Vol. I. Trans. Ben Fowkes. London: Penguin Classics,
1976.
- Marx,
Karl. The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte.
- Engels,
Friedrich. The Peasant War in Germany.
- Luxemburg,
Rosa. The Accumulation of Capital. London: Routledge, 2003.
- Linebaugh,
Peter and Marcus Rediker. The Many-Headed Hydra: Sailors, enslaved
people, Commoners, and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlantic.
Boston: Beacon Press, 2000.
- Wood,
Ellen Meiksins. The Origin of Capitalism: A Longer View. London:
Verso, 2002.
Modern Ireland, Sectarianism, and Legacy
- Bew,
Paul. Ireland: The Politics of Enmity, 1789–2006. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2007.
- Farrell,
Michael. Northern Ireland: The Orange State. London: Pluto Press,
1976.
- Patterson,
Henry. Ireland Since 1939: The Persistence of Conflict. Dublin:
Penguin, 2013.
- Bardon,
Jonathan. A History of Ulster. Belfast: Blackstaff Press, 1992.
- Hennessey,
Thomas. The Evolution of the Troubles, 1970–72. Dublin: Irish
Academic Press, 2007.
