Alone amongst the major rebellions of the sixteenth century the Desmond rebellion of 1579 seems to have retained its romantic fascination untarnished. While the rebellions of 1534 and 1569 and the major uprising in Ulster at the end of the century have each been subjected to critical historical analysis, the uprising of the last Desmond earl seems to contain a mysterious element which has somehow deflected all attempts at detached assessment, and which continues to attract popular historians, like Richard Berleth, in search of a good Gothic tale at the close of the feudal age. The dramatic appeal of the Desmond rebellion, I suspect, lies in the aura of inevitability which appears to surround it. As Macbeth was doomed to be overthrown, as Othello was doomed to kill that which, he loved most, as Hamlet was doomed to do nothing, so it seems Desmond was doomed to destroy himself in rebellion.

Political life in Ireland in the third quarter of the eighteenth century was disturbed by three major opposition campaigns. From 1753 to 1756 there was the so-called money bill dispute in which Henry Boyle (later first earl of Shannon) mounted a formidable and largely successful opposition to the designs of the Dublin Castle administration for replacing him as chief undertaker. The years 1769-71 saw a noisy but ineffective opposition to Viscount Townshend’s plans for re-modelling the way Ireland was governed. And from 1778 to 1783 there was the famous patriot opposition led by Henry Grattan and Henry Flood which won for Ireland ‘a free trade’ and the ‘constitution of ’82’ The first and last ofthese opposition campaigns have been studied in detail; but the opposition to Townshend has been comparatively neglected, perhaps because the result was so unequivocally a victory for the Castle and hence less ‘heroic’ in its outcome than the other two campaigns. This paper sets out in the first instance to correct this imbalance by examining the reasons for the failure of the Irish opposition to Townshend.

During the imperial conference of 1930 a senior British official vented his exasperation at the demands of the Irish delegation, commenting ‘surely de Valera could not be worse than this. If their opponents came into power, this might clear the air. We might get rid of this sapping by which we are losing much and gaining little goodwill.’

In retrospect, as many British ministers and officials would have ruefully admitted, this view had much to commend it. But the peculiar circumstances surrounding Eamon de Valera’s accession to power, followed so soon by a major disturbance in Anglo-Irish relations, instead of clearing the air, fogged it with tension, rumour and misunderstanding. In such an atmosphere rational assessments of the new Irish leader and his policy were at a premium.