Very shortly afterwards his eldest brother was executed at Wexford, his father died, while another brother, also deeply implicated, was not prosecuted, and figured many years afterwards as secretary to the Catholic Committee; but he was neither deep enough nor mute enough for Mr. Daniel O’Connell, who, at that day, was, by-the-by, a large, ruddy young man, with a broad and savoury dialect, an imperturbable countenance, intrepid address, et præterea nihil. He was then more fastidious as to his approbation of secretaries than he afterwards turned out to be.[[60]]
[60]. Mr. O’Connell was called to the bar, Easter, 1798, on or about the same day that Father Roche was hanged. He did not finger politics in any way for several years afterwards, but he studied law very well, and bottled it in usum—jus habentis may be added or not.
Amongst the persons who lost their lives on that occasion was the Rev. Mr. Haydn, a very old and highly respected clergyman of the Established Church: he was much more lamented than the thirty priests who were hanged at the same period. He was piked or shot by the rebels in the street, and lay dead and naked upon the Castle Hill, till duly consumed by half-starving dogs, or swine of the neighbourhood, that marched without invitation into the town, to dine upon any of the combatants who were not interred too deep to be easily rooted up again.
After the rebellion had entirely ended, it was remarked in the neighbourhood, that what the peasants call a “slip of a pig,” who had been busy with his neighbours carousing in Enniscorthy, as aforesaid, had, from that period, increased in stature and corresponding bulk to an enormous degree, and far outstripped all his cotemporaries, not only in size, but (so far as the term could be applicable to a pig) in genuine beauty. At length his growth became almost miraculous; and his exact symmetry kept pace with his elevation.
This young pig was suffered to roam at large, and was universally admired as the most comely of his species. He at length rose to the elevation of nearly a heifer, and was considered too great a curiosity to remain in Ireland, where curiosities, animate and inanimate, human and beastly, are too common to be of any peculiar value, or even excite attention. It was therefore determined to send him over as a present to our Sovereign—as an olive-branch, so to speak, for the subdued and repentant rebels of Enniscorthy, and a specimen which, being placed in the Tower, might do great honour to the whole race of domestic swine, being the first tame gentleman of his family that ever had been in any royal menagerie.
This Enniscorthy miracle was accordingly shipped for Bristol, under the care of a priest, two rebels, and a showman, and in due season arrived in the metropolis of England. Regular notice of his arrival was given to the king’s proper officers at the Tower, who were to prepare chambers for his reception, though it was maliciously whispered that the “olive branch,” as the priest called the pig, was intended only second-hand for his Majesty; that is to say, after the party and showman should have pursed every loose shilling the folks of London might be tempted to pay for a sight of so amiable an animal. The pig took admirably; the showman (a Caledonian by birth) was economical in the expenditure, and discreet in his explanations. The pig became the most popular show at the east end; Exeter Change even felt it. However, fate ultimately restored the baboons and tigers to their old and appropriate rank in society.
This proceeding, this compliment of the olive branch, was neither more nor less than is generally used in the case of our most celebrated generals, admirals, and statesmen, (and occasionally our most gracious Sovereigns,) who, being duly disembowelled, spiced, swaddled, and screwed up in a box, with a white satin lining to it, (well stuffed, to make it easy,) are exhibited to their compatriots of all ranks, who can spare sixpence to see an oak trunk, covered with black, and plenty of lacquered tin nailed on the top of it. But here the pig was seen alive and merry, which every body (except testamentary successors) conceives has much the advantage over any thing that is inanimate.
I had myself, when at Temple, the honour of paying sixpence to see the fork which belonged to the knife with which Margaret Nicholson attempted to penetrate the person of his Majesty, King George the Third, at St. James’s; and the Dean and Chapter of Westminster, through their actuaries, receive payment for showing the stone heads of patriots, poets, and ministers, whom they have secured in their tabernacle; Sir Cloudesley Shovel, who was drowned as an admiral; Major André, who was hanged as a spy; and Mr. Grattan, who should have been buried in Ireland.