religious houses had never thought of Clonmel. In fact, Mooney tells us, that the altars were still standing in the church, and that in the centre of the choir there was a very gorgeous monument, consisting of groups of marble statues to the memory of the lord baron of Cahir, together with many other memorials of the same character, to mark the last resting-place of the nobles who were wont to bury within the sacred precincts. Father Mooney, however, tells us that he was greatly scanda1.zed by the conduct of some Jesuits, and other ecclesiastics, who (in the absence of the Franciscans) allowed the remains of the Protestant sovereign of Clonmel to be interred close by lord Cahir's monument in the choir; so much so, that he caused the body to be exhumed in the night-time and buried elsewhere. This, he informs us, he did with the permission of the archbishop of Cashel, At the period of Father Mooney's visitation it would appear that the Jesuits and secular clergy had possession of the conventual church, the former alleging that they had got a grant of it from Pope Paul V., and the latter supporting them in their pretensions, so much so, that the citizens, acting under the influence of the Jesuits and secular clergy, on two different occasions refused to receive a community of Franciscans into their town. The provincial, however, a very sturdy man, took active measures to re-establish the claims of his brotherhood, and it was finally decided by a papal rescript that they should take possession of their ancient church, the opposition of the Jesuits and secular clergy notwithstanding. Father Mooney's next effort was to get back from the representatives of the Earl of Ormond, the original grantee, some portion of the ancient endowments of the monastery, but we need hardly say that he was unsuccessful. insisted that the friars were entitled to the building called the "Aula Comitis" or Earl's Palace, standing hard by the monastery, and that the fishing-weir and mills on the Suir should be restored to them. But, despite all his instances, he could get no redress from the heirs of Lord Ormond, and the lands, mills, weirs, and fishing-pools were escheated for ever from the friars. Of the "Aula Comitis," or Earl's Palace, we believe there has been no vestige in the memory of the oldest inhabitant of Clonmel; but it may interest some to know that it stood within the precincts of the convent grounds, in Kilshelan Street, and was one of those edifices which some of the Irish nobility built in the vicinity of the religious houses to serve them for a temporary residence while going through a course of penitential exercises.

He

In 1615 all the buildings of the Convent, with the exception of the church and cloister, were entirely dilapidated; but the then Earl of Ormond remodelled the infirmary, and converted it into a dwelling-house, which was subsequently given as a marriage dowry to the lady Helen de Barry, whose second husband was Thomas Earl of Somerset. Mooney petitioned to have this edifice given to the Franciscans, but his memorial was rejected, and the friars were constrained to fix their abode in a house which they rented. To this Convent of Clonmel belonged a far-famed statue of St. Francis, which Father Morney tells us was rescued from the

iconoclasts of the days of King Henry and Queen Elizabeth, a statue in presence of which no one could commit perjury without incurring the penalty of sudden death, or, at all events, without having the whole truth brought to light by a special interposition of Heaven. This statue or image was enshrined in the sacristy of the church when Father Mooney visited Clonmel and we would suggest that some one should look after it, as it is likely enough that a relic so venerated may be still in existence, secreted somewhere in or about the remains of the old monastery. To these meagre details regarding the Franciscan Convent of Clonmel, we have only to add what Father Mooney says of its site, namely, that it was most happily chosen -picturesque and commanding, though built inside the town wall, and in an angle of the city-in angulo civitatis.

With this venerable edifice we must naturally associate the memory of a highly distinguished Franciscan, of whom his native land and Clonmel in particular may justly be proud; for, indeed, his voluminous writings and the esteem in which he was held by the celebrities of his day, must always entitle him to our respect and ve neration. How very few of the many who frequent the little church of St. Francis in Clonmel ever think that more than two centuries ago there lived a townsman of their own who, when a mere stripling, was wont to kneel and pray within the same hallowed precincts, and who in his maturer years acquired a world-wide renown as a profound metaphysician, theologian, poet and historian! And yet each of these attributes has been freely accorded to a native of Clonmel, whose numerou3 and learned works are the clearest evidences not alone of a master mind, but of industry which has seldom been equalled before or since the time in which he flourished. Father Bonaventure Baron, the individual to whom we have been alluding, was born in Clonmel early in the seventeenth century, and after completing his preparatory studies in that city, proceeded to Rome, probably in 1636, just eleven years after his uncle, the celebrated Luke Wadding had founded the convent of St. Isidoro for Irish Franciscans. Wadding soon perceived that his sister's son possessed grand abilities, which were destined to reflect honour on the order of which he himself was even then foremost among the great, and he accordingly resolved to spare no paius in forwarding the education of his kinsman and protégé. Congeniality of tastes, and a never-wearying love of research in the wide domain of history and speculative science, endeared those ardent students to each other, and caused them to concentrate all their energies on one grand object equally valued by both, namely, to revive the literary glory of the Franciscans, and preserve from oblivion the memories of the great men of the same body, who conferred such signal service on mankind during that long and dismal period when knowledge and civilization could find no biding-place outside the cloister.

It would be superfluous to recount all that Wadding achieved in this wonderful self-imposed task, of which he has left us so many valuable monuments evidencing

genius of the highest order, and industry which challenged the encomiums of Sir James Ware,* who, his Protestantism notwithstanding, could appreciate such gigantic labours, a nounting to thirteen or fourteen tomes, eight of which (the Annals) are large folio, to say nothing of other works which this great Irishman projected. As for Baron, it would appear that he had made up his mind to rival his preceptor and kinsman, and, indeed, it may be said that in some respects the pupil outstripped the teacher in the rapidity with which he produced some of his earliest works. Considering the various duties that devolved on him after his ordination, when he was appointed to teach theology, in the school of St. Isidoro, and discharge other offices connected with that establishment, we cannot but wonder how any one man could have written so much, so learnedly, and on such a variety of topics, before he had yet hardly passed that period which Dante calls the mid-term of life. And yet, such is the fact, for we have it on the authority of Father Wadding himself, that his nephew ("nepos meus ex sorore) had actually written in Latin, singularly remarkable for its elegance, some five or six volumes, while he was yet considerably under thirty-three years of age. The titles of some of these works, strange as they must appear in an English translation, will show how versatile was the genius of this eminent man, an with what facility he could turn from the profounder pursuit of studies philosophical and theological to the cultivation of the muses, and, indeed, of almost every department of light literature. The dates, too, of some of his numerous publications, will prove what we have already asserted, namely, that his industry was indefatigable, and, we might almost say, unequalled. Thus, the Panegyrical Orations," the first volume which he published at Rome, in 1643, was, two years afterwards, that is to say, in 1645, followed by his "Miscellaneous Poems, including Epigrams and Eulogiums of Eminent Men." In 1651 he edited his "Philosophical Essays;" and in the same year "The Diatribe on Silence," or "Harpocrates Quinqueludius," a work in which he displays an extensive knowledge of all the ancient systems of philosophy, aud profound acquaintance with the writings of the most celebrated of the Christian apologists in the early ages. In fact, it would seem as if the energies of this wonderful man never flagged, that his active mind needed or relaxation, for not only the printing-presses of Rome, but those of Paris, Lyons, Florence, Wurtzburg, and Cologne found ample employment from his pen, which, at intervals of two, three, or more years, gave to the world no less than six volumes, three of which are large folio, devoted to theological and philosophical controversies, and a viudication of that great luminary of the fourteenth century, Duns Scotus, or the Subtile Doctor, he, too, a Franciscan, the fame of whose learning drew together upwards of thirty thousand students to Oxford, when he taught in that university. Besides "Writers of Ireland."

the works we have already specified, Father Baron wrote a "Course of Theology," in six tomes; and, towards the close of his life, he published, at Rome, the first volume (folio) of the "Annals of the Order of the Most Holy Trinity for the Redemption of Captives," commencing with the year 1198, and carrying it down to 1267. This remarkable work narrates the foundation of the various houses of the order, and, along with biographies of its most eminent men, gives us interesting details of the number of captives rescued from the horrors of Saracen bondage, by the heroic charity of a single brotherhood, who, in their day, rendered signal services to their fellow-men. Father Baron proposed to himself to continue this history down to his own times, but, growing feeble and blind, after expending such an amount of vitality on the works we have enumerated, he was obliged to renounce the pen towards the close of the year 1686. The remaining ten years of his life were for him a series of great bodily infirmities, rendered all the more painful by the total loss of sight, till, at length, after having spent over sixty years in Rome, he died, at a great old age, in the convent of St. Isidoro, and was buried near the grave of Luke Wadding, in 1696.

As

The respect in which this native of Clonmel was held by the great men of his period was such that he might well be proud of it, if a heart like his could find a place for self-esteem; but he was above all such petty weaknesses, and cared more for the honour of his Order than he did for his own glorification. Nevertheless, the criticisms of his great contemporaries pronounced him to be 66 a man among men," and a writer who deserved to occupy a niche in the temple of fame. volume after volume came from his pen, the reviewers hailed them each and all with most respectful praise; and among those who were foremost in lauding the labours of the Clonmel friar we find a countryman of his own, Neal O'Glacan, a native of Donegal, who professed medicine in the Universities of Toulouse and Bologna; wrote a "Cursus Medieus" and other works on cognate subjects, and was finally appointed physician and privy councillor to the King of France. As for Father Baron, he too had honours bestowed on him by another potentate; for Cosmo III., Grand Duke of Tuscany, selected him before all others to fill the envied place of historiographer to his court. This brief biography of such a distinguished Irishman may obtain some additional interest from a description of his por trait, which, along with that of the great Wadding and some other Irish celebrities of his era, is before us as we write. The picture in our possession represents him in his fifty-second year, dressed in the habit of his order, resting his left hand on a ponderous folio, and holding a pen in his right. His features are very benevolent, the nose inclining to aquiline; the eyes clear and penetrating; the mouth firm, with deep lines at the angles; and knitted brows, so characteristic of those who think much, and give the brain little rest. As for the head, like that of Wadding, it is large, domelike, and, with the exception of a few scattered hairs

above the temples, bald; in a word, such a one as denotes a man of great intellect, and indomitable energy.

We now return to Clonmel, which, as we shall see, was destined to be the scene of a grand and thrilling incident, just fourteen years after Father Baron had looked his last on the bell tower of the old Franciscan monastery, which continued to flourish till Cromwell took possession t of the town. Let us premise, however, that a very short time after the formation of the great Catholic league, the supreme council of the Confederates held their parliament in Clonmel on more than one occasion, deeming it far safer and better suited for their deliberations than Kilkenny, particularly in 1642, when the latter place was likely to be seized by Lord Omond, after the defeat of General Preston at Ballyvega, near Ross. In the subsequent proceedings of the Confederates, Clonmel adhered to the policy of Rinuccini, who, setting great value on the devotion with which the inhabitants regarded his person, and seeing that it was strongly walled round, made it his head-quarters in 1647, and there wrote some of the most remarkable of the many despatches which he forwarded to the court of Rome touch ing the state of affairs in Ireland. It was not, however, till 1650 that Clonmel earned for itself that proud distinction in the military history of this country that was accorded to it, however reluctantly, by Cromwell himself, after the memorable siege. The general history of that event is accurate enough as to the result; but a manuscript account of it, by one who was thoroughly acquainted with the chief actors in that most singular episode, enables us to throw additional light on the whole affair, and we will therefore lay it before our readers.

When Hugh O'Neill, acting under the orders of Lord Ormond, took possession of Clonmel, and garrisoned it with fifteen hundred troops, nearly all of whom were Ulstermen, his first care was to strengthen the defences of the place, for he had resolved to hold it to the last extremity. Having been duly proclaimed governor of the town, O'Neill despatched a detachment to Fethard, and another, consisting of eighty men, commanded by an Ulster officer, to the castle of Cahir, for the purpose of preserving both places against the Parliament forces. At this period Cahir Castle was abundantly supplied with provisions and ammunition, and strengthened by two strong gates, a draw-bridge, a goodly bawn, and a strong-walled bass-court. Mr. Mathews, a step-brother of Lord Ormond, who was governor of the place, overjoyed at such a timely reinforcement, gave a cordial welcome to the Ulstermen, and set about taking measures for a vigorous defence in case Cromwell's forces should assault it. He arranged, however, with the officer of the Ulstermen that the latter should hold the bawn whenever the enemy approached, stipulating, at the same time, that in case they were overpowered, he would admit them into the castle as soon as the outworks were no longer tenable. Soon afterwards the van of Cromwell's army appeared before the castle, and set about scaling the outer wall, but

were gallantly repulsed by the fourscore Ulstermen, who kept their ground till they saw the main force of the enemy planting their heavy ordnance against the castle. Knowing that nothing but certain death awaited them if they remained any longer in the bawn, the Ulster officer proceeded to Mathews, asking him to make good his promise, and receive him and his party into the castle. He, however, peremptorily refused, and on returning to his men, the officer found a trumpeter from Cromwell, demanding a parley, which being granted, he capitulated for himself and fellows, who were suffered to march out with all honours of war, and a pass to continue in the enemy's quarters for a month. When they reached the camp, Cromwell made much of them, and asked the Ulster officer to join him; but the latter replied (to Cromwell's admiration), that he would not, and then, followed by his men, hastened to join Major-General O'Neill, in Clonmel.

After the reduction of Kilkenny, Cromwell sat down before the former city, and immediately commenced siege operations. O'Neill, however, nothing daunted, made frequent sallies, causing the enemy so much loss, that Cromwell grew tired of the business, though deeming it a disgrace to leave the town untaken, the more so as he knew that the army commanded for its relief by the Bishop of Ross had been defeated by Lord Broghill. Among O'Neill's troops, however, there was a traitor, a pliant knave named Gerald Fennell, who was major of horse, and this falsehearted villain contrived to enter into a correspondence with Cromwell, who proposed to give him five hundred pounds sterling and a full pardon, provided that he would, on the night of the eighth or ninth of May, open one of the gates on the north side of the town to five hundred of the besiegers. Fennell accepted the proposal, and on the night agreed upon drew off the detachment of Ulstermen who had charge of that particular gate, and replaced them with a party of his own. Now it so happened on that night that Major-General O'Neill could take no rest, for he knew that a crisis was at hand, and he accordingly resolved to make a personal inspection of the various posts. On reaching the gate from which the Ulstermen had been withdrawn, it occurred to him that there was some treason brewing, and he lost not a moment in summouing Fennell to his presence. "Why, sir," demanded the general," have you moved the Ulstermen from the gate? Why have you not observed my orders?-come, disclose the whole truth, or you are likely to pay dearly for it." Fennell then promised to reveal the conspiracy on condition that the general wou'd pardon him. "Tell the truth freely," replied O'Neill, "and you may count on my forgiveness." Fennell then confessed that he had agreed to open that particular gate to five hundred of the enemy, and no sooner was the general made aware of this than he ordered strong reinforcements to the various posts, and an addition of five hundred men to the gate in question. All this was done noiselessly, and at the appointed hour the gate was opened, but no sooner had the last man entered than it was securely

shut, and at a given signal the Ulster forces fell upon the Cromwellians and cut them to pieces. Disconcerted by this unexpected issue, Cromwell ordered up the battering guns, breached the wall, and made it assaultable for horse and foot. O'Neill, however, lost no time in causing a counterscarp and a ditch to be made right opposite the breach, and he also threw a strong body of musketeers into the houses lying near the wall, who opened a galling fire on the enemy as they advanced. The assault now began in right earnest, the Cromwellians never thinking of the ditch and counterscarp which barred their progress, and so valiantly did the Irish behave on that awful night that they three several times beat back their assailants with terrible carnage. Resolved, however, to win or lose all, Cromwell poured his masses pell-mell into the breach, the hind ranks pushing those that went before them into the ditch, where they were slaughtered without mercy for fully four hours. So determined was this gallant resistance that Cromwell's reinforcements refused to enter the yawning breach, and he himself, unable to conceal his admiration of the Irish, declared that they were "invincible." Finding that any further attempt might compromise his army, he withdrew to his camp, leaving O'Neill in possession of a breached and bloody wall. On that night the gallant general called a council of war, and finding that the soldiers had exhausted their ammunition and provision, he marched quietly out of the town by the old bridge, and crossing the mountains, proceeded towards Waterford; nor was it till next morning, when a deputation of the townsmen waited on him in his camp, that Cromwell knew of the retirement of the valiant governor, whom he commended "as a bold soldier." With how much truth has Whitelock written of this siege, that Cromwell found in Clonmel the stoutest enemy his army had ever met in Ireland, and never was seen so hot a storm, of so long continuance, and so gallantly defended." On reaching Waterford, and being refused admittance by Diego Preston, then commanding that place, O'Neill hastened by forced marches to Limerick, which he defended valiantly against Ireton till again betrayed, on two several occasions by Fennell, he had to capitulate. The latter, bowever, got the death he deserved, for Ireton excepted him from pardon, und caused him to be executed as a traitor to friend and foe.

"Infelix praxis Judae, non Martis alumni Qui patriam tradens, vendidit ære ducem!"

In the enumeration of Father Baron's works, we have not mentioned any of those which are classed among his opuscula, or minor productions; and we have purposely adopted this course, in order that we may be able to give our readers, in a future number, one of the rarest of those little tracts which came from his pen, namely, the Siege and Storm of Duncannon.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A REPORTER.

THE COURT-MARTIAL.

A GENERAL election had just commenced, and a greater degree of excitement than is usually caused even by such a disturbing event prevailed throughout Ireland. Serious riots and a conflict between the military and the people, leading to bloodshed and loss of life, had occurred at Farborough, and I was sent down "special," to make the most of the business, for the anxiously-expectant and innumerable readers of the influential organ with which I had then the honour of being connected, I mean "The Cosmopolitan Illuminator." Our feeble cotemporary, the Hesperus, also sent down a representative in the person of Mr. Theodore Augustus Maximilian Smirke, familiarly known to his observant acquaintances by the expressive soubriquet of "the Spitfire." He was a thin, white-faced fellow, with lank, mouse-coloured hair, and had an expression of intense self-satisfaction continually depicted on his countenance, which, as a consequence, was extremely disagreeable to look upon; he did rereporting and general literature for the "Hesperus," and was ready to undertake anything, from an epic to a vaudeville, on the slightest provocation. The principal object of my journey was to report the proceedings of a court-martial which was to be held upon certain men belonging to the North Side Invincibles, who were accused of having taken part with the mob, in a riot and an attack on a detachment of a regiment of the line which had been brought into the town to aid in the preservation of the peace during the election. I put up at the "Golden Plough," which, although not the principal hotel at Farborough, has the advantage of a more cheerful and elevated site than the "Crown and Sceptre," which, being. patronised by the bar, naturally plumes itself upon being the house. Another reason for my preference of the "Plough" was the fact of the connection therewith of a very singular and amusing character in the person of the head waiter, Old Charley. This was the only name I ever knew him by, and as it was quite sufficient for all the purposes of our intimacy, I never cared to inform myself of his patronymic. From the first moment in which he manifested himself to me, several years previously, in all his quaint peculiarities of manner and oddities of expression, his resemblance, in many particulars, to the Corny Delany of Lever's story, "Jack Hinton," struck me forcibly. As I drove up to the "Plough" on this occasion, Charley was standing at the door with the everlasting napkin thrown across his arm, and looking more than usually rueful and discontented. On recognising me, however, he assumed a more cheerful aspect, (for we had always been good friends,) and advancing to the car, ostensibly for the purpose of giving some assistance in the removal of my luggage, but in reality with the view of making a speech, he greeted me as follows::

Well, sir, you're welcome anyhow, tho' it's poor accommodation in the sleepin' way we can promise

ye. There's a set of infernal gladiathers here, and for these five nights past, the devil such a thing as gettin' a wink o' sleep they'll give us the chance of at all wid their roystherin' and jack-actin', may sweet bad luck to them."

"What's the matter now, Charley," said I, as I stood superintending the conveyance of my "traps" from the car to the hotel; "what's the matter with you? who are the gladiators this time ?"

"Oh, as nice a set o'boys as there is betune this and Spike Island, and that's sayin' a good dale. They belong to the Invensibles,' and they call themsel's officers. Officers, moryah! It's not in th' ould times th' are, or maybe the'd find it another time o'day wid themselves, the spalpeens. Them officers, to be sure!"

Charley said all this in such a subdued tone, and with a manner so expressive of the deepest confidence, as gave me clearly to understand that it was intended for my private delectation alone. He did not seem conscions that his remark touching the possibility of those individuals, in respect of whom he was so ireful, had they lived in the old times, finding themselves differently circumstanced, involved an obvious truism, and I am not sure that even if he had known it, it would have made any difference, as the suggestion was a favourite one with Charley, and like the opprobrious term, " "gladiator," was made use of on all occasions when he thought proper to indulge his propensity for invective. Wishing to draw him out still further, I inquired, before entering the house, whether he had heard of the courtmartial which was about to be held?

"The coort-marshal," said Charley," an troth I have, and betune you and me, sir, if the pack o' gladiathers that's inside" (this was said in a whisper, the speaker indicating the coffee-room with a slight reflex action of one of his thumbs), "was to be put on their thrial, instead of the poor fellows in the jail beyant, it 'id be only sarvin thim right-an it's me that 'id give thim lift wid a heart and a half, always provided it was to lift them to the gallis."

Charley gave a peculiar chuckle at this heartless joke, as if he relished the notion amazingly, although, if put to the test, he would in all probability no more give evidence in support of a criminal prosecution, no matter who or what the prisoners, than abandon the habit of stigmatizing his tormentors, or those whom he chose to consider as such, in the peculiar manner which I have described. Entering the coffee-room, I saw at a glance the state of affairs which gave rise to the indignation of poor Charley. The apartment was a lengthy one, with a table extending almost from end to end, and having an exceedingly low ceiling. Indeed, this circumstance of the low ceiling, I may observe, was one much complained of by some frequenters of the house, on the ground that it prevented their absorbing the same quantity of whiskey-punch after dinner, as they were in the habit of doing in other places where no such architectural drawback existed. It was mid-day, and every seat at the table was occupied, the majority of

those present being in uniform, which I immediately recognised as of the "Invincible" pattern. There was a great clamour of voices and clatter of knives and forks, for the company was industriously engaged in discussing luncheon, so industriously indeed that my entrance was totally unheeded, and I took my seat at a little sidetable, where Charley soon afterwards set forth wherewithal to refresh me, without seeming to attract the slightest attention. Even at that early hour the bottle had commenced to circulate freely, and although due regard for etiquette, in the observance of which your militia officer takes pride in being particularly rigid, prevented the proposal of "sentiments" or the interchange of those little genialities expressed in the brief interrogatory-"May I have the pleasure of wine with you?"-the general aspect of the assembly and the tone of conversation, indicated clearly enough that the spirit of conviviality was in full sway.

"Charley!" shouted a lean, wiry-looking fellow with a light moustache and light brown hair, wearing the undress of the "Invincibles," who sat at the end of the table next the door, "Charley, some more sherry here; we've not got a drop at this end of the table, I can take my oath, for the last minute and a half",

Here the speaker was interrupted by a general burst of laughter, occasioned no doubt by the mock pathetic tone in which he urged his complaint of such a tremendously protracted hiatus in the circulation of the sherry.

"Why, Stalker, my poor fellow," said the vis a vis of the last speaker, when the laughter had subsided, we had no idea in this quarter that you were short of beer;" ("beer" is a standing synonyme with "fast" men for every variety of fluid in which the alcoholic clement predominates,) "or we'd have spared you a drop, sooner than you should have been without it for a whole minute and a half. We can be charitable to a neighbour in distress, Stalker, my boy."

This sally was the signal for a renewal of the laughter, in the midst of which Charley appeared at the door, bearing a coaster with a fresh supply of sherry, and muttering some indistinct expressions of dissatisfaction in his customary strain, of which I was only able to detect the word "gladiather."

"Here now, Captain," he said to Stalker, in a tone half-querulous half-conciliatory, "is more of the ould stuff, and there's lots more where that kem from, if yez wants it. It's th' Invensibles' that knows what good liquor is, at any rate." Then glancing at me as he passed out, and throwing up his hands and eyes simultaneously, with an imploring expression, as if desirous of some special intervention of Providence in his behalf, he supplemented his complimentary observation in regard to the Bacchanalian discernment of the "Invincibles" with the remark, "Little good may it do them, the schemin' pack o' gladiathers-officers, how are ye!"

"At what hour does the court open, have you heard, Thunderton?" inquired Captain Stalker of his chari.. tably-disposed brother-in-arms at the head of the table.