Incidents attending the first assault of Wexford by the rebels, in
1798—Excesses mutually committed by them and the royalists—Father
Roche—Captain Hay, and his gallant rescue of two ladies—Mr. O’Connell
in by-gone days—Painful but ludicrous scenes after the conflict at
Wexford—Swinish indignity offered to a clergyman—A pig of rapid
growth—Extraordinary destination of the animal—Its arrival and special
exhibition in London—Remarks on London curiosities—Remarkable success
of the Enniscorthy boar—Unhappy disclosure of the animal’s previous
enormities—Reaction on the public mind—His Majesty’s comments on the
affair—Death of the swinish offender, in anticipation of a projected
rescue by the London Irish.
A most ludicrous incident chanced to spring out of the most murderous
conflict (for the numbers engaged) that had occurred during the
merciless insurrection of 1798 in Ireland.
The murdered victims had not been effectually interred, the blood was
scarcely dry upon the hill, and the embers of the burned streets not yet
entirely extinguished in Enniscorthy, when, in company with a friend who
had miraculously escaped the slaughter, and Mr. John Grogan, of
Johnston, who was then seeking for evidence amongst the conquered
rebels, to prove the injustice of his brother’s execution, I explored
and noted the principal occurrences of that most sanguinary engagement.
I give them, in connexion with the preposterous incident which they gave
rise to, to show in one view the _mélange_ of fanaticism, ferocity, and
whimsical credulity, which characterised the lower Irish at that
disastrous epocha, as well as the absurd credulity and spirit of true
intolerance which signalised their London brethren, in the matter of the
silly incident which I shall mention.
The town of Enniscorthy, in the county of Wexford, in Ireland, (one of
the first strong possessions that the English, under Strongbow,
established themselves in,) is situate most beautifully on the river
Slaney, at the base of Vinegar Hill; places which the conflicts and
massacres of every nature, and by both parties, have marked out for
posterity as the appropriate sites of legendary tales, and traditional
records of heroism and of murder.
The town is not fortified; and the hill, like half a globe, rising from
the plain, overlooks the town and country, and has no neighbouring
eminence to command it.
The first assault on this town by the rebels, and its defence by a
gallant, but not numerous garrison, formed one of the most desperate,
heroic, and obstinate actions of an infatuated people. It was stormed by
the rebels, and defended with unflinching gallantry; but captured after
a long and most bloody action, during which no quarter was given or
accepted on either side. Those who submitted to be prisoners only
preserved their lives a day, to experience some more cold-blooded and
torturing extinction.
The orange and green flags were that day alternately successful. But the
numbers, impetuosity, and perseverance of the rebels, becoming too
powerful to be resisted, the troops were overthrown, the rout became
general, and the royalists endeavoured to save themselves in all
directions: but most of those who had the good fortune to escape the
pike or blunderbuss were flung into burning masses, or thrown from the
windows of houses, where they had tried to gain protection or conceal
themselves.
The insurgents were that day constantly led to the charge, or, when
checked, promptly rallied by a priest, who had figured in the French
revolution in Paris—a Father Roche. His height and muscular powers were
immense, his dress squalid and bloody, his countenance ruffianly and
terrific; he had no sense either of personal danger, or of Christian
mercy. That day courage appeared contagious, and even his aged followers
seemed to have imbibed all the ferocity and blind desperation of their
gigantic and fearless pastor.
The streets through which the relics of the royal troops must traverse
to escape the carnage were fired on both sides by the order of Father
Roche, and the unfortunate fugitives had no chance but to pass through
volumes of flame and smoke, or yield themselves up to the ferocious
pike-men, who chased them even into the very body of the conflagration.
My accompanying friend had most unwittingly got into the town, when in
possession of the army, and could not get out of it on the sudden
assault of the rebels. He had no arms. Many of them knew him, however,
to be a person of liberal principles, civil and religious; but he with
difficulty clambered to a seat high up in the dilapidated castle; where,
unless as regarded the chance of a random shot, he was in a place of
tolerable safety. There he could see much; but did not descend till the
next morning; and would certainly have been shot at the windmill on
Vinegar Hill had not the Catholic priests of his own parish vouched for
his toleration and charity; and above all, that he had, early that year,
given a large sum towards building a chapel and endowing a school for
the cottagers’ children.
His description of the storm was extremely exciting; and the more so, as
it was attended by an occurrence of a very interesting nature.
It was asserted by some of the loyal yeomen who were engaged, that the
rebels were commanded, as to their _tactics_, by Captain Hay, of the ——
dragoons, who had been some time amongst them as a prisoner; a report
countenanced by the disaffection of his family. This gave rise to
charges against Captain Hay of desertion to the rebels, and
high-treason. He was submitted to a court-martial; but an act of the
most gallant and chivalrous description saved him from every thing but
suspicion of the criminality imputed.
Mrs. Ogle and Miss Moore, two of the most respectable ladies of Wexford,
happened to be in Enniscorthy, when it was assaulted, without any
protector, and subject to all the dangers and horrors incidental to such
captures. They had no expectation of escape, when Captain Hay, in the
face of every species of danger, with a strength beyond his natural
powers, and a courage which has not been exceeded, placing them on a
horse before him, rushed into the midst of a burning street, and,
through flames and shots, and every possible horror, bore them through
the fire in safety; and, although he sadly scorched himself, proceeded
in conveying and delivering them safe to their desponding relations. Mr.
Ogle was member for the county. The act was too gallant to leave any
thing more than the suspicion of guilt, and the accused was acquitted on
all the charges.
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]
-----
Footnote 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.
There can be little doubt that the greatest men of the present day, for
a British shilling, before much more of the present century is finished,
will be exhibited in like manner.
The thing has become too public and common. In early days, great men,
dying, required to be buried in the holiest sanctuary going. Sometimes
the great bust was transferred to Westminster Abbey; but, of late, the
monuments are becoming so numerous, the company so mixed, and the
exhibition so like a show-box, that the modern multiplication of Orders
has made many Knights very shy of wearing them. Thus the Abbey has lost
a great proportion of its rank and celebrity; and I have been told of a
gentleman of distinction, who, having died of a consumption, and being
asked where he wished to be buried, replied, “any where but Westminster
Abbey.”
To resume, however, the course of my narrative—the celebrity of the
“olive branch” every day increased, and the number of his visitors so
rapidly augmented, that the priest and showman considered that the day
when he should be committed to the Tower would be to them no trifling
misfortune. Even the ladies conceived there was something musical in his
grunt, and some tried to touch it off upon their pianos. So gentle, so
sleek and silvery were his well-scrubbed bristles, that every body
patted his fat sides. Standing on his bare feet, his beautifully arched
back, rising like a rainbow, overtopped half his visitors; and he became
so great and general a favourite, that, though he came from Ireland,
nobody even thought of inquiring whether he was a papist or protestant
grunter!
One day, however, the most unforeseen and grievous misfortune that ever
happened to so fine an animal, at once put an end to all his glories,
and to the abundant pickings of his chaplain.
It happened, unfortunately, that a Wexford yeoman, who had been at the
taking and retaking of Enniscorthy, (a theme he never failed to
expatiate on,) and had been acquainted with the pig from his infancy, as
well as the lady sow who bore him, having himself sold her to the last
proprietors, came at the time of a very crowded assembly into the room;
and, as Irishmen never omit any opportunity of talking, (especially in a
crowd, and, if at all convenient, _more_ especially about themselves,)
the yeoman began to brag of his acquaintance with the hog, the storming
of the town, the fight, and slaughter; and, unfortunately, in order to
amuse the company, by suggesting the cause of his enormous bulk and
stature, mentioned, as a national curiosity, that the people in Ireland
were so headstrong as to attribute his growth to his having eaten the
Rev. Mr. Haydn, a Protestant clergyman of Enniscorthy, after the battle;
but he declared to the gentlemen and ladies that could not be the fact,
as he was assured by an eye-witness, a sergeant of pike-men amongst the
rebels, that there were several dogs helping him, and some ducks out of
the Castle court. Besides, the parson having been a slight old
gentleman, there was scarcely as much flesh on his reverend bones as
would have given one meal to a hungry bull-dog. This information, and
the manner of telling it, caused an instantaneous silence, and set every
English man and woman staring and shuddering around him, not one of whom
did the pig attempt to put his snout on. The idea of a _Papist_ pig
eating a _Protestant_ parson was of a nature quite insupportable; both
church and state were affected: their praises were now turned to
execration; the women put their handkerchiefs to their noses to keep off
the odour; every body stood aloof both from the pig and the showman, as
if they were afraid of being devoured. The men cursed the Papist brute,
and the rebellious nation that sent him there; every one of them who had
a stick or an umbrella gave a punch or a crack of it to the “olive
branch;” and in a few minutes the room was cleared of visitors, to the
astonishment of the yeoman, who lost no time in making his own exit. The
keepers, now perceiving that their game was gone, determined to deliver
him up, as _Master Haydn_, to the lieutenant of the Tower, to be placed
at the will and pleasure of his Majesty.
The chaplain, showman, and two amateur rebels, now prepared to return to
Wexford. Though somewhat disappointed at the short cut of their
exhibition, they had no reason to find fault with the lining their
pockets had got. The officers of the Tower, however, had heard the
catastrophe and character of the “olive branch,” and communicated to the
lieutenant their doubts if he were a fit subject to mix with the noble
wild beasts in a royal menagerie. Several consultations took place upon
the subject; the lord chamberlain was requested to take his Majesty’s
commands upon the subject in council: the king, who had been signing
some death-warrants and pardons for the Recorder of London, was
thunderstruck and shocked at the audacity of an Irish pig eating a
Protestant clergyman; and though no better Christian ever existed than
George the Third, his hatred to pork from that moment was invincible,
and became almost a Jewish aversion.
“The Tower! the Tower!” said his Majesty, with horror and indignation.
“The Tower for an Irish hog that ate a pious Christian!—No, no—no, no,
my lords.—Mr. Recorder, Mr. Recorder—here, see, see—I command you on
your allegiance—shoot the pig, shoot him—shoot, Mr. Recorder—you can’t
hang.—Eh! you would if you could, Mr. Recorder, no doubt. But, no,
no—let me never hear more of the monster. A sergeant’s guard—shoot
him—tell Sir Richard Ford to send his keepers to Ireland
to-night—to-night if he can find them—go, go—let me never hear more of
him—go—go—go—go—shoot him, shoot him!”
The Recorder withdrew with the usual obeisances, and notice was given
that at six next morning a sergeant’s guard should attend to shoot the
“olive branch,” and bury his corpse in the Tower ditch, with a bulky
barrel of hot lime to annihilate it. This was actually executed,
notwithstanding the following droll circumstance that Sir Richard Ford
himself informed us of.
Sir Richard was far better acquainted with the humour and management of
the Irish in London, than any London magistrate that ever succeeded him:
he knew nearly all of the principal ones by name, and individually, and
represented them to us as the most tractable of beings, if duly come
round and managed, and the most intractable and obstinate, if directly
contradicted.
The Irish had been quite delighted with the honour intended for their
compatriot, the Enniscorthy boar, and were equally affected and
irritated at the sentence which was so unexpectedly and so unjustly
passed on him; and, after an immediate consultation, they determined
that the pig should be rescued at all risks, and without the least
consideration how they were to save his life afterwards. Their procedure
was all settled, and the rescue determined on, when one of Sir Richard’s
spies brought him information of an intended rising at St. Giles’s to
rescue the pig, which the frightened spy said must be followed by the
Irish firing London, plundering the Bank, and massacring all the
Protestant population—thirty thousand choice Irish being ready for any
thing.
Sir Richard was highly diverted at the horrors of the spy, but judged it
wise to prevent any such foolish attempt at riot, by anticipating his
Majesty’s orders; wherefore, early in the evening, a dozen policemen,
one by one, got into the hog’s residence, with a skilful butcher, who
stuck him in the spinal marrow, and the “olive branch,” scarcely brought
life to the ground with him. The rescue was then out of the question,
and in a very short time Doctor Haydn’s Gourmand was not only defunct,
but actually laid ten feet under ground, with as much quick-lime covered
up over his beautiful body as soon left hardly a bone to discover the
place of his interment.
Sir Richard told this anecdote, as to the execution, &c. with great
humour. The Irish used to tell Sir Richard that a pig was dishonoured by
any death but to make bacon of; that God had sent the breed to Ireland
for that purpose only; and that, when killed for that purpose, they
considered his death a natural one!