Biographical and characteristic sketch of Dean Kirwan—His extraordinary
eloquence—The peculiar powers of Sheridan, Curran, and Grattan
contrasted—Observations on pulpit, bar, and parliamentary oratory.
A comparative scale of the talents of the celebrated men of my day I
have frequently attempted, but never with success. Though I knew most of
them both in private and public, my mind could never settle itself to
any permanent opinion on so complicated a subject. Nevertheless, I quite
agree with the maxim of Pope—that “The noblest study of mankind is man!”
and the analysis of human character has ever formed one of my greatest
amusements, though all endeavours to reduce my observations to a system
have proved decidedly idle. Hence, I have at times grown out of humour
with the science altogether, and made up my mind that there never was a
more unprofitable occupation than that of determining a public character
whilst the individual still lived. It is only after the grave has closed
on men—when they can change no more, and their mortal acts are for ever
terminated—that their respective natures become truly developed. This is
a reflection that must surely force itself upon the mind and heart of
every observant man.
The depressions of adversity generally leave the ostensible character
pretty much as it originally appeared, save that it occasionally throws
out hidden errors, abjectness or fortitude, and that talent or ingenuity
is sometimes elicited in a greater proportion than the sufferer was
previously imagined to possess. But I have always seen high prosperity
the true and almost infallible touchstone: and since I have had leisure
to observe the world, its effects upon my fellow-countrymen have proved
more remarkable than upon the people of any other country—and indeed, in
many instances, to an extent thoroughly ridiculous.
Eloquence, (a first-rate quality in my scale of talent,) is that for
which the Irish _were_ eminently celebrated. But the exercise of this
gift depends on so many accidental circumstances, and is withal so much
regulated by fashion, that its decline is scarcely surprising. So few
possess it from nature, and its superiority when possessed is so
transcendent, that it has become the interest of the only body in
Ireland now accustomed to extempore public speaking, (the bar,) to
undervalue and throw it into the back-ground, which they have
effectually succeeded in. A dull fellow can cry “come to the point!” as
well as the most eloquent declaimer.
Pulpit eloquence is, in my opinion, by far the most important of any:
the interest in which it is enlisted is, or ought to be, tremendously
absorbing; and in consequence, it is deserving of the highest and most
persevering cultivation. Yet, what is the fact?—Unless we resort to the
temples of sectarianism, and run a risk of being annoyed by vulgarity
and fanaticism, we have little or no chance of meeting with a preacher
who seems _in earnest_. Polemical controversy may be carried on between
priests with but little zeal and very meagre devotion; and bishops may
think it quite sufficient to leave the social duties and cardinal
virtues to work their way by force of their own intrinsic merits; yet
these are the points whereon a really eloquent and zealous minister
might rouse the attention of his hearers to effectual purpose, and
succeed in detaching them from methodistical cant and rant, which, at
present, (merely in consequence of apparent heartiness and a semblance
of inspiration,) naturally draw away both old and young—both sensible
and illiterate—from the tribe of cold metaphysical expositors who
_illuminate_ the Christian tenets in our parochial congregations.
Nothing can better exemplify the latter observations than a circumstance
connected with the little island of Guernsey. There are seven Protestant
churches in that island, where the usual service is gone through in the
usual manner, but in the French language. A parcel of Methodists,
however, professed themselves discontented with the Litany, established
a different form of worship, and set up a meeting-house of their own,
upon a more “free and easy” foundation, calling every thing by its
proper name, and giving out that they could save _two_ souls for every
_one_ a common Protestant parson could manage: in due time they
inveigled a set of fanatic persons of both sexes to form a _singing
choir_, which employed itself in chanting from morning till night; every
girl who wanted to put her voice in tune being brought by her mamma to
sing psalms with the _new lights_! This vocal bait took admirably; and,
in a short time, the congregations of “the _seven_ churches” might have
been well accommodated in _one_. On the other hand, although the
meeting-house was enlarged, its portals even were thronged on every
occasion, multitudes both inside and out all squalling away to the very
stretch of their voices.
The dean and clergy, perceiving clearly that singing had beaten praying
out of the field, made a due representation to the bishop of Winchester,
and requested the instructions of that right reverend dignitary, how to
bring back the wayward flock to their natural folds and shepherds, from
which they had been lured by the false warbling of fanatics. The bishop
replied, that as the desertion appeared to be in consequence of the
charms of melody, the remedy was plain—namely, to get _better singers_
than the Methodists, and to sing better tunes; in which case the
Protestant churches would, no doubt, soon recover every one of their
parishioners.
Not having, for many years, heard a sermon in Ireland, I am not aware of
the precise state of its pulpit oratory at present. But of this I am
quite sure—that neither politics nor controversy are the true attributes
of Christian worship; and that, whenever they are made the topic of
spiritual discourses, the whole congregation would be justified in
dozing even from _text_ to _benediction_.
I have heard many parsons _attempt_ eloquence, but very few of them, in
my idea, succeeded. The present Archbishop of Dublin worked hard for the
prize, and a good number of the fellows of Dublin College tried their
declamatory organs to little purpose: in truth, the preaching of one
minister rendered me extremely fastidious respecting eloquence from the
pulpit.
That individual was Dean Kirwan (now no more), who pronounced the most
sublime, eloquent, and impressive orations I ever heard from the members
of any profession, at any era. It is true, he spoke for _effect_, and
therefore directed his flow of eloquence according to its apparent
influence. I have listened to this man actually with astonishment! He
was a gentleman by birth, had been educated as a Roman Catholic priest,
and officiated some time in Ireland in that capacity; but afterwards
conformed to the Protestant church, and was received _ad eundem_. His
extraordinary powers soon brought him into notice; and he was promoted
by Lord Westmoreland to a living; afterwards became a dean; and would,
most probably, have been a bishop;—but he had an intractable turn of
mind, entirely repugnant to the usual means of acquiring high
preferment. It was much to be lamented that the independence of
principle and action which he certainly possessed was not accompanied by
any reputation for philanthropic qualities. His justly high opinion of
himself seemed (unjustly) to overwhelm every other consideration.
Dr. Kirwan’s figure, and particularly his countenance, were not
prepossessing; there was an air of discontent in his looks, and a
sharpness in his features, which, in the aggregate, amounted to
something not distant from repulsion. His manner of preaching was of the
French school: he was vehement for awhile, and then, becoming (or
affecting to become) exhausted, he held his handkerchief to his face: a
dead silence ensued—he had skill to perceive the precise moment to
recommence—another blaze of declamation burst upon the congregation, and
another fit of exhaustion was succeeded by another pause. The men began
to wonder at his eloquence, the women grew nervous at his denunciations.
His tact rivalled his talent: and, at the conclusion of one of his
finest sentences, a “_celestial exhaustion_” (as I heard a _lady_ call
it) often abruptly terminated his discourse. If the subject was charity,
every purse was laid largely under contribution. In the church of St.
Peter’s, where he preached an annual charity sermon, the usual
collection, which had been under 200_l._, was raised by the dean to
1,100_l._! I knew a gentleman myself, who threw both his purse and watch
into the plate, through an impulse that nothing but such eloquence could
have excited.
Yet the oratory of this celebrated preacher would have answered in no
other profession than his own, and served to complete my idea of the
true distinction between pulpit, bar, and parliamentary eloquence.
Kirwan in the pulpit, Curran at the bar, and Sheridan in the
senate,—were the three most effective orators I ever recollect, in their
respective departments.
Kirwan’s talents seemed to me to be limited entirely to effective
elocution. I had much intercourse with him at the house of Mr. Hely, of
Tooke’s-court. While residing in Dublin, I met him in private society at
a variety of places; and my overwrought expectations were a good deal
disappointed. His style of address had nothing engaging; nothing either
dignified or graceful. In his conversation there was neither sameness
nor variety—ignorance nor information; and yet, somehow or other, he
avoided insipidity. His _amour propre_ was the most prominent of his
superficial qualities; and a bold, manly, intractable independence of
mind and feeling, the most obvious of his deeper ones. I believe he was
a good man, if he could not be termed a very amiable one; and learned,
although niggardly in communicating his information.
I have remarked thus at large upon Dean Kirwan, because he was,
altogether, the greatest orator I ever heard, and because I never met
any man whose true character I felt myself more at a loss accurately to
pronounce upon. It has been said that his sermons were adroitly
extracted from passages in the celebrated discourses of Saurin, the
Huguenot, who preached at the Hague (grandfather or great-grandfather to
the late attorney-general of Ireland).[75] It may be so; and in that
case all I can say is, that Kirwan was a most judicious selector, and
that I doubt if the eloquent writer made a hundredth part of the
impression of his eloquent plagiarist.
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Footnote 75:
Voltaire in his “Age of Louis the XIV,” says, “James Saurin was born
at Nismes, 1677:—he was the best preacher of the reformed church; but
he dealt too much in what was called the _refugee style_. He was
created minister to the _noblesse_ at the Hague; was a learned man—but
addicted to pleasures: he died 1730.”
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I should myself be the plagiarist of a hundred writers, if I attempted
to descant upon the parliamentary eloquence of Sheridan. It only seems
necessary to refer to his speech on Mr. Hastings’s trial;[76] at least
that is sufficient to decide me as to his immense superiority over all
his rivals in splendid declamation. Most great men have their distinct
points of superiority, and I am sure that Sheridan could not have
_preached_, nor Kirwan have _pleaded_. Curran could have done
both—Grattan neither:—but, in language calculated to _rouse a nation_,
Grattan, whilst young, far exceeded any of them;—and in mere flow of
words, Yelverton was above all.
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Footnote 76:
I had an opportunity of knowing that Mr. Sheridan was offered 1000_l._
for that speech by a bookseller, the _day after_ it was spoken,
provided he would write it out correctly from the notes taken, before
the interest had subsided; and yet, although he certainly had occasion
for money at the time, and assented to the proposal, he did not take
the trouble of writing a line of it! The publisher was of course
displeased, and insisted on his performing his promise: upon which
Sheridan laughingly replied in the vein of Falstaff:—“No, Hal!—were I
at the strappado, I would do nothing _by compulsion_!” He did it at
length—but too late! and, as I heard, was (reasonably enough!) not
paid.
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I have often met Sheridan, but never knew him intimately. He was too
much my senior and superior. While he was in high repute, I was at
laborious duties: while he was eclipsing every body in fame in one
country, I was labouring hard to gain money in another. He professed
whiggism: I did not understand it, and have met very few patriots who
appear to have acted even on their _own_ definition thereof—if any
_certain_ definition there is.