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 200l., was raised by the dean to 1,100l.! 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.