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The Rev. Doctor Burrows was, of all the parsons, the most inveterate enemy and active prosecutor of my friend Theophilus: he was one of those who, in despite of Queen Elizabeth, and the rules of the Holy Trinity, had fallen in love, and indulged his concupiscence by uniting his fortunes and person with the object of it in the holy bands, without a dispensation – and by that incontinent omission got within the circle of Swift’s anti-moralists. This reverend person determined to make the public hate Theophilus, if possible, as much as he did himself; and forgetting, in his zeal, the doctrine of libel, and the precedent which he had himself just helped to establish, set about to slay the slayer, and write a quietus for Theophilus Swift (as he supposed) during the rest of his days! Thus, hugging himself in all the luxury of complete revenge on a fallen foe, Dr. Burrows produced a libel nearly as unjustifiable against the prisoner, as the prisoner had promulged against him: and having printed, published, and circulated the same, his reverence and madam conceived they had executed full justice on the enemy of marriage and the clergy. But, alas! they reckoned without their host: no sooner had I received a copy of this redoubtable pamphlet, than I hastened to my friend Theophilus, whom, from a state of despondency and unhappiness, I had the pleasure, in half an hour, of seeing at least as happy and more pleased than any king in Europe. It is unnecessary to say more than that I recommended an immediate prosecution of the Rev. Doctor Burrows, for a false, gross, and malicious libel against Theophilus Swift, Esq. Never was any prosecution better founded, or more clearly and effectually supported; and it took complete effect. The reverend prosecutor, now culprit in his turn, was sentenced to one-half of Swift’s term of imprisonment, and sent off to the same close and same company as Theophilus.

The learned fellows were astounded; the university so far disgraced; and the triumphant Swift immediately published both trials, with observations, and notes critical and historical, &c.

But, alas! the mortification of the reverend fellow did not end here. On arriving at his Majesty’s gaol of Newgate, (as the governor informed me,) the doctor desired a room as high up as could be had, that he might not be disturbed whilst remaining in that mansion. The governor informed him, with pungent regret, that he had not a pigeon-hole unoccupied at the time, there being upward of two hundred and forty prisoners, chiefly pickpockets, many of whom were waiting to be transported; and that, till these were got rid of, he had no room, nay, not even a cell, that would answer his reverence: but there was a very neat little chamber in which were only two beds – one occupied by a respectable and polite gentleman; and if the doctor could manage in this way meanwhile, his reverence might depend on a preference the moment there should be a vacancy, by the removal of the pickpockets.

Necessity has no law; and the doctor, forced to acquiesce, desired, though with a heavy heart, to be shown to the chamber. On entering, the gentleman and he exchanged bows; but in a moment both started and stared involuntarily at sight of each other. On one was to be seen the smile of triumph, on the other the grin of mortification. But Swift (naturally the pink of politeness) gave no reason for an increase of the doctor’s chagrin. On the contrary, after several obeisances, (looking steadily at his own nose with one eye, and fixing the other on the parson,) my friend Theophilus commenced a rapid and learned dissertation upon the Greek and Latin classics, natural philosophy, Locke on the Human Understanding, &c. &c. running on without stop or stay, until he perceived an incipient relaxation in the muscles of his reverence’s face.

In fine, his good humour and good manners had their full operation on the incarcerated Trinitarian. As the sunbeams put out a fire, so did a sense of his own folly flash so strong upon the doctor’s reason, that it extinguished the blaze of his anger; and the governor having left them, in a short time an éclaircissement took place between these two fellow-lodgers in a room fourteen feet by twelve! I afterward learned that they jogged on very well together till the expiration of their sentences, and I never heard of any libel published by either the doctor or Theophilus from that day forth.

PULPIT, BAR, AND PARLIAMENTARY ELOQUENCE

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 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.

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).⁷² 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.

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;⁷³ 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.

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.

QUEEN CAROLINE

Reception of the late Queen Caroline (then Princess of Wales) at the drawing-room held after the “delicate investigation” – Her depression, and subsequent levity – Queen Charlotte and the Princess compared and contrasted – Reflections on the incidents of that day and evening – The Thames on a Vauxhall night.

I have often mused on the unfortunate history and fate of the late Queen Caroline. It is not for me here to discuss her case, or give any opinion on the conduct of the ruling powers in the business. I shall only observe, that though it was not possible to foresee such events as subsequently took place, I had, from the time of my being presented to that princess by Lord Stowell, felt an unaccountable presentiment that her destiny would not be a happy one.

Upon the close of the “delicate investigation,” a drawing-room of the most brilliant description was held at St. James’s, to witness the Princess’s reception by her Majesty, Queen Charlotte. I doubt if a more numerous and sparkling assemblage had ever been collected in that ancient palace; – curiosity had no small share in drawing it together.

The sun was that day in one of his most glaring humours; he shone with unusual ardour into the windows of the antique ball-room – seeming as if he wished at the same moment to gild and melt down that mass of beauty and of diamonds which was exposed to all his fervour. The crowd was immense, the heat insufferable; and the effects resulting therefrom liberally displayed themselves, though in different-tinted streams (from the limpid to the crimson), upon the fine features of the natural and aided beauties.

I was necessitated to attend in my official dress: the frizzled peruke, loaded with powder and pomatum (covering at least half the body of the sufferer), was wedged in amongst the gaudy nobles. The dress of every person who was so fortunate as to come in contact with the wigs, like the cameleon, instantly imbibed the colour of the thing it came in collision with; and after a short intimacy, many a full-dress black received a large portion of my silvery hue, and many a splendid manteau participated in the materials which render powder adhesive.

Of all the distressed beings in that heated assembly, I was most amused by Sir Vicary Gibbs, then attorney-general. – Hard-featured and impatient – his wig awry – his solids yielding out all their essence – he appeared as if he had just arisen (though not like Venus) from the sea. Every muscle of his angular features seemed busily employed in forming hieroglyphic imprecations! Though amused, I never pitied any person more – except myself. Wedged far too tight to permit even a heaving sigh at my own imprisonment, I could only be consoled by a perspective view of the gracious Charlotte, who stood stoutly before the throne like the stump of a baronial castle to which age gives greater dignity. I had, however, in due rotation, the honour of being presented, and of kissing the back of her Majesty’s hand.

I am, of course, profoundly ignorant of her Majesty’s manner in her family, but certainly her public receptions appeared to me the most gracious in the world: there could not be a more engaging, kind, and condescending address than that of the Queen of England. It is surprising how different a queen appears in a drawing-room and in a newspaper.

At length, the number of presentations had diminished the pressure, and a general stir in the crowd announced something uncommon about to take place. It was the approach of the Princess of Wales.

Whoever considered the painfully delicate situation in which this lady was then placed, could not help feeling a sympathy for her apparent sufferings. Her father, the Duke of Brunswick, had not long before expired of his wounds received at Jena; and after her own late trials it was, I thought, most inauspicious that deep mourning should be her attire on her reception – as if announcing at once the ill-fate of herself and of her parent: her dress was decked with a multiplicity of black bugles. She entered the drawing-room leaning on the arm of the Duke of Cumberland, and seemed to require the support. To her it must, in truth, have been a most awful moment. The subject of the investigation, the loss of her natural protector, and the doubts she must have felt as to the precise nature of her reception by the Queen, altogether made a deep impression on everyone present. She tottered to the throne: the spectacle grew interesting in the highest degree. I was not close; but a low buzz ran round the room that she had been received most kindly, and a few moments sufficed to show that this was her own impression.

After she had passed the ordeal, a circle was formed for her beyond the throne. I wished for an introduction, and Lord Stowell (then Sir William Scott) did me that honour. I had felt in common with every body for the depression of spirits with which the Princess had approached her Majesty. I, for my part, considered her in consequence full of sensibility at her own situation: but so far as her subsequent manner showed, I was totally mistaken. The trial was at an end, the Queen had been kind, and a paroxysm of spirits seemed to succeed and mark a strange contrast to the manner of her entry. I thought it was too sudden and too decisive: she spoke much, and loud, and rather bold: it seemed to me as if all recollection of what had passed was rapidly vanishing. So far it pleased me, to see returning happiness; but still the kind of thing made no favourable impression on my mind. Her circle was crowded; the presentations numerous: but on the whole, she lost ground in my estimation.

This incident proved to me the palpable distinction between feeling and sensibility– words which people misconstrue and mingle without discrimination. I then compared the two ladies. The bearing of Queen Charlotte certainly was not that of a heroine in romance: but she was the best-bred and most graceful lady of her age and figure I ever saw: so kind and conciliating, that one could scarcely believe her capable of any thing but benevolence. She appeared plain, old, and of dark complexion; but seemed unaffected, and commanded that respect which private virtues will ever obtain for public character. I liked her vastly better than her daughter-in-law. – I mention only as a superficial, not an intellectual feeling, that I never could reconcile myself to extra-natural complexions.

I returned from the drawing-room with a hundred new thoughts excited by circumstances which had never occurred to me on any former occasion, and by the time I arrived at the Adelphi, had grown from a courtier into a philosopher! Even there, however, my lucubrations were doomed to interruption. From my chamber at the Caledonian, the beauty of the animated Thames quite diverted my mind from the suffocating splendour, under the pressure of which I had passed three hours. The broad unruffled tide, reflecting the rich azure of the firmament, awakened in my mind ideas of sublimity which would have raised it toward heaven, had not dinner and a new train of observation recalled me to worldly considerations, which I fancied I had for one evening completely laid aside. Another scene of equal brilliance in its own way soon rivetted my attention. It was a Vauxhall evening – and thousands of painted and gilded skiffs darted along under my windows, crowded with flashy girls and tawdry cits, enveloped in all their holiday glories, and appearing to vie in gaudiness with the scullers of which they were the cargo. Here elegance and vulgarity, rank and meanness, vice and beauty, disease and health, mingling and moving over the waters, led me to the mortifying reflection, that this apparently gay and happy company probably comprised a portion of the most miserable and base materials of the British population.

I soon became fatigued by the brilliant sameness of the scene; and a sort of spurious philosophy again led me back to the Queen’s drawing-room, and set me reflecting on numerous subjects, in which I had not the remotest interest! but as solitary reasoning is one of the very greatest incentives to drowsiness, that sensation soon overcame all others; the sensorial powers gradually yielded to its influence; and, in a short time, the Queen and the Princess of Wales – the drawing-room and the gilded boats – the happy-looking girls and assiduous gallants – all huddled together in most irreverent confusion, sheered off (as a seaman would say), and left a sound and refreshing slumber in place of all that was great and gay – dazzling and splendid – in the first metropolis of the European hemisphere.