lovely, whatsoever things were of good report," began to be regarded with an earnestness proportioned to their importance. And had Kirwan only lived a few years longer, it would have been impossible for any government to neglect so good and so great a man. If, therefore, he was the victim of a vicious system of patronage, to him more especially belongs the merit of having originated that movement by which, in its practical working, it has been so sensibly improved.

Of the churches in which he officiated, and which were filled by fashionable audiences, the vast majority of whom came to be amused or delighted, it is no doubt, most true, that the appearance was very often such as but ill-beseemed the house of God. The censorious railed against his preaching as a theatrical exhibition of mere human eloquence, unsuited to places of public worship. But, whatever may thus be said, no one ever stood in his presence, when fulminating those denunciations by which profligacy was denounced, and pressing those incentives by which humanity was awakened, and man taught to feel his relation to his fellow-man, and

"That we have, all of us, one human heart,"

without having his moral consciousness stirred to its very lowest depths within him, and the connexion brought home of the utter worthlessness of earthly things, compared with things which are eternal. Thus, many of even the most apparently careless and irreligious persons, who came merely to hear, remained to pray; and left the church with incipient convictions, which afterwards, in many instances, ripened into sincere conversion.

We have said that no record remains of those wondrous appeals, the tradition of the effects of which has alone come down to us. This is the more surprising, as it is well known that they were very carefully pre. pared; and the writer of this paper has heard the late James Dunn, who knew him well, affirm, that Kirwan himself never scrupled to declare that those bursts of apparently extemporaneous eloquence, which seemed in their delivery to be sudden inspirations of the moment, were the very portions of his discourse most premeditated, and which had cost him the most labour. We do not say, we do not believe, that in every instance this was the case; but it is an undoubted truth that severely strict preparation was the rule, sudden improvisation the exception. We marvel, therefore, how it has happened that nothing now survives him but the volume of sermons published after his death, and which are a compilation from fragmental notes and hints, contained in manuscripts which were found amongst his papers, and exhibit rather the disjecta membra of his oratory, in which organic life and power are extinct, than such compacted, articulated, and systematic discourses, as those in which Cicero and Demosthenes yet live, and he would have recognised as a perfect representation of the divine originals to which he owed his fame, and which, had life been spared him, it was his full intention to have given to the world.

But there are, occasionally, passages scattered throughout this volume, which, if we may judge ex pede Herculem, fully sustain his high reputation.

He

Perhaps the strongest evidence of the greatness of his powers, was Grattan's enthusiastic admiration of them. He literally worshipped Kirwan as an orator, while he revered him as a Christian minister, and loved him as a friend. almost exhausted language in describing, in the Irish House of Commons, his transcendent excellence, when he denounced the government of the day, for leaving such a man so scantily provided. Through life he was his most steadfast adherent, and after his death continued to his family the kindliest and most gratifying attentions. Indeed that great orator, and most amiable of politicians, appeared in nothing more amiable, than in the persevering goodness which prompted him to show respect and regard to the widow and the orphan children of the man who had been himself so much more than a husband to many widows, and so much more than a father to many orphans.

But he will be deemed a partial judge. Let us, then, take the evidence of one to whom no such partiality can be attributed; one who scanned him with a keenly critical and curious eye, and whose estimate of him is as much reduced below the standard of his most ardent admirers, as, with any regard to candour, it was possible to make it. Let the following document, of which the author is unknown, speak for itself. We give it as it was communicated to us, by one

of the nearest relatives of the Dean, who found it, as he informs us, in a number of the Patriot newspaper, a publication long since extinct, but well remembered by many of our readers:

"SKETCH OF THE REV. W. KIRWAN.

"This is a man whose image must not play merely on my superficial senses. While it seems to pass before my eyes, let me embody my idea of him on paper, that I may afterwards recur to the first strong impression, when the original has faded into a phantom of remembrance.

"Mr. Kirwan exemplifies the remark, that a man of eminent merits and talents, and who is confessedly such, is not ugly with the most irregular features. The lines of his face are acute and angular It is not that waving outline which sinks and swells with easy undulation. It is not in his cheeks, nor in his chin, where you need look for (what Johnson calls) the convexity of contentment, and even his celestial eye has something in it sharp and scrutinizing, Fashion appears at present to prefer those purblind eyes, where the lids contract the sight into shrewdness rather than sagacity, fitted chiefly to pore over the insect or the manuscript. But more to be admired is that august and ample range of eyes, which, like those in the portrait of Shakspeare, open widely on the book of nature. Their majestic orbs roll from heaven to earth, and from earth to heaven; and the light of the soul meets the light of the sun without blenching.

"Mr. Kirwan's eyes often flash with the fire of fancy, and at times even with the flames of frenzy. The result of his countenance is neither smoothness nor suavity; but rather the point and pungency of satire. When he sheathes his visage in a smile, there is something of mockery in that smile; yet, rigid as his features undoubtedly are, it is a hardness which admits the polish of the world, and seems highly to have received it. There is an ugliness that is genteel, and one that is vulgar.

"He makes much of a slight figure. The same spirit which dilates the metaphor seems to inflate the man. While his whole frame enlarges in its dimensions, his audience swarm and are straitened; and the greatest lords of the conclave, the mighty seraphim of the senate, reduce their shapes immense, and are diminished to atoms. He rises, not with an air of self-annihilation, but with an air which announces his relationship to man, rather than to God. I cannot much admire a certain spruce familiarity of manner which has crept into the pulpit, a foppishness of preparation, an easy arrangement of little accommodations, and an abundance of handkerchief, which makes us at a loss to conclude whether the gentlemen deem themselves before their glass, or before their Maker. Mr. Kirwan has not much of this, but rather more than I should require in the grave, authentic, authoritative ambassador of heaven.

"He seems, very early, to put himself coolly into a passion, that his energies may, as soon as possible, be stretched to that tone which unites vigour of conception with hardihood of expression, and gives confidence alike to his audience and to himself. That gifted elocution which is, of itself, nothing more than copious barrenness, appears in him to have been elaborated to a great degree of excellence, by study and meditation. His words do not pour forth from mere laxity of intellect; when he seems most precipitate, he is most studiously correct. He drives like Phaton, with the prudence and foresight of Apollo.

"Excellence is the reward of labour, perhaps of labour only-the sweat of the brow, or the throe and travail of the mind. When a complicated piece of music is executed with flying fingers, we forget the painful acquisition of those numberless little movements, which repetition has, at length, made mechanical; and in the currency of the harangue, the orator only can remember the pains which accomplished it, the patience with which he moulded the metaphor, the labour with which he scaled the climax. Mr. Kirwan's labours are both of the body and the mind.

"His voice is neither uniform nor full-chested; it is not an angelic voice, which when ended, leaves us still listening, still fixed to hear; and yet it serves him well. "His eloquence is in general too brilliant for sublimity, and his language too figurative for pathos. His fancy is, indeed, a firework, which bursts into a thousand stars, that sparkle with metaphorical magnificence, and spangle the whole mental horizon. But that sublime which thunders and lightens on the top of the mount, or moves along in those masses of light and shade that fill the soul with a passing glory, or overshadow it with an awe, arresting every faculty, and even stifling exclamation that pathos where modest art hides itself, and strives only to decorate nature; where infantine simplicity sits upon the lips, and the natural idea, that springs from the native ingenuousness of the heart, is seen naked, through the plain and pellucid expression; he has not that sublimity, nor that pathos; and yet I do not say that he is not often pathetic, and often sublime. He is rhetorical, rather than oratorical-pungent, rather than pathetic;—his vehement fancy kindles every

sentiment into a passion, and his energetic action hurls the glowing idea into the hearts of his hearers. His action is indeed very ardent, very impressive; the product of a sanguine temperament, much sensibility, and much self-assurance.

"But were I now asked what is the characteristic or discriminating trait of this celebrated preacher, I would not say that it is his face, or his figure, his voice, his gesture, or his gesticulation, his vivid fancy, or his vehement invective. No; neither, nor all; but it is the possession of that wonderful quality, without which, even men of talents must ever remain in vulgar mediocrity-without which no man ever was a great man, no character can ever emerge into glory; it is the possession of that divine breath, which, in a favoured few, is superadded to the breath of life, fills them with double soul, and accumulates around some grand purpose all the energies of human nature. To such men the universe is annihilated, and nothing remains but the object, and the mounting mind, which aspires to its attainment; which descries the possibility of things afar off, and finds the means in the daring. It is that heroic quality which cut the Gordian knot with the sword of Alexander, burned the paper with the pen of Rousseau, and, with the voice of a Grattan, all but accomplished the redemption of a nation.

"It is enthusiasm-divine, ineffable, inimitable enthusiasm. It is this quality which shines on this man's countenance, amplifies his figure, and vivifies action, which, without it, would be mere theatrical mummery. What wonders has not this exotic enthusiasm already produced! It has enchanted a great city into charity-charity, that all-atoning virtue, which has most miraculously swallowed up all the rest; it has dazzled the public eye, arrested the public ear-alluring the attention, impressing the heart. A great light shines suddenly around us journeying on our way, but who except the preacher has been converted! It has made worship, if not a duty, at least a pastime, and introduced strange noise and bustle into the still sanctuary of the house of God. The mob and the military which surround this house, the career of coaches, the glitter of dress, the assembled congregation of amateurs, the busy whispers which fill up the pauses of the orator, where it is found difficult to repress involuntary acclamation-all this seems to shed a glare of festivity around the pulpit, which I think in some measure profanes it, wholly dispels the dim religious light," and makes us ask, if this be an asylum from the world, where we can "commune with our own hearts, and be still."

66

"But the purpose of this preacher's eloquence surpasses human praise; and when he retires within the recesses of a heart which I believe to be as good as is declared, and counts up, with glorious avarice, the enormous sums which his exertions have obtained for those who were ready to perish; when he considers the hours of happiness which thence derive to his own bosom, let him fall down before God in a transport of gratitude.

"I have exaggerated the faults of this great man-I have undervalued his excellencies; praise is always too general, and censure too particular.”

We do think that our readers will thank us for having thus rescued from oblivion a document of so much force and beauty as that which we have now submitted to them. The writer, whoever he was, was a very accomplished and able man; and he looks through his subject with a scrutinizing eye, and a predetermination to spy out whatever of defect could be discovered, or wherein the great man fell short of absolute perfection. Like the Athenian, who was tired of hearing Aristides called "the Just," he seems to have been piqued by the reputation of the preacher, who was almost universally deemed the greatest of living orators. Whatever commendation, therefore, is given, is extorted from him as an acknowledgment which he could not withhold; while, as he himself candidly admits at the conclusion, the censure is exaggerated. And yet, take it all in all, is it less than almost the very highest praise?

When Kirwan ceased to be a Romanist, he only did so to become a Catholic. He never felt or acted as if his office was sectarian. He was fonder of contemplating the points of agreement than those of difference, between the church to which he conformed, and other religious denominations; and regarded himself as called rather to act upon society in the mass, by making war upon its common wickedness and corruption, than to enter upon, or elucidate, those speculative niceties which discriminate from each other, and hold in mutual repulsion, the different denominations of professing believers.

And, in point of fact, those differences were at that time latent-the several old denominations retaining their respective forms more from habit than from principle or conviction so that the churches were as crowded by believers of all sorts (the Roman Catholics alone excepted), to hear this extraordinary man, as any one place of worship, or conventicle, would be, by those exclusively

belonging to it, to attend upon the ministry of its most favoured teacher. Thus his great powers were brought to bear upon men in the aggregate; and the elemental truths of Christian morality were those upon which he chiefly insisted, to awaken them to a sense of their lost condition, and the evils, both temporal and eternal, which it involved. In this manner he called them to repentance; and may be said to have "prepared the way" for the righteousness that was afterwards to be revealed. And when theologians find fault with him for not dwelling more than he did upon the strictly evangelical doctrines of the gospel, they should remember that in moral, as in physical existences, warmth generally precedes flame; and that it was to the very ardour of the piety which he was instrumental in enkindling, men were indebted for the spiritual discernment which led them to rest satisfied with nothing short of the whole of that divine truth which our blessed Lord came to reveal, and which, when properly received and acted upon, is the power of God unto salvation. It would be well for those who pride themselves upon discovering spots in the sun, to remember that it is only by its own light they are rendered visible.

Up to the year 1800, he remained without any other preferment than the two small livings already mentioned; the one, the prebend of Howth, the value of which was about one hundred pounds per annum; the other, St. Nicholas Without, which was then worth three hundred; making his income altogether four hundred a-year. He was now presented, by Lord Cornwallis, to the deanery of Killala, which then brought in eight hundred a-year, and he immediately resigned into the archbishop's hands the prebend of Howth, the only mark of favour which he had ever received from that dignitary, of whose harshness and insolence towards him we have already given some examples.

This addition to his worldly means was seasonable; as, in 1798, he was joined in wedlock to Wilhelmina Richards, the youngest daughter of Goddard Richards, Esq., late of Grange, in the county of Wexford. By her he had issue, two sons and two daughters, for whom he must naturally have been solicitous to provide. But he had no anxious looking forward on their account. His heart was devoted to the cause of charity; and he who had done so much for the public, naturally thought, and often said, that the public would provide for his children. But, as was justly observed by Lord Plunket to one of his sons, on a late occasion, when the latter applied to his lordship to sign for him a public memorial, "Never was there a man who did so much for his country, while his country did so little for him."

Of his sensitive and excitable temperament, the incident already mentioned, of his rushing upon the scaffold to address a hardened culprit at the moment when about to be launched into eternity, is a striking example. We are tempted to give another, although it may be deemed below the dignity of the subject, and more related to the one alluded to in the way of contrast than of resemblance.

He was very fond of dogs, and generally was not without a favourite of that kind, who, in his walks, was his constant companion. One day, as he was walking with a friend in the part of Dame-street near the castle, they got involved in a crowd, and he suddenly missed his dog. His resolution was instinctive. He started from his friend's side, and before the latter could imagine what had possessed him, he was seen, to his great consternation, mounted upon the highest point of the balustrade which then fronted the Royal Exchange, and shouting in all directions, from the top of his voice, the name of his dog, "Friend, Friend, Friend!" When, by-and-bye, he had descended, his friend ventured to expostulate warmly with him for the strange exposure which he, such a man, made of himself in the most crowded thoroughfare of the city; and Kirwan seemed for the first time awakened to a sense of his impropriety, and to be for a moment abashed and confounded. "It is very true," said he, very true; it was all very wrong. But," he added, turning with a look of affectionate satisfaction to his mute companion, who stood beside him, “I have my dog!"

This little anecdote, trifling though it be, we would be loath to omit, as, in the present sketch, we are desirous to present the man as well as the preacher. Of his rare disinterestedness, and lofty disdain of mere pecuniary consideration, we have a strong proof, in his refusal to accept the offer a wealthy relative who resided in London, to adopt and provide for his eldest son. This was a gentleman whose life was not according to godliness, and by whose society, he

had too many reasons to fear, his child's morals would not be improved. No earthly inducement, therefore, could reconcile him to the proposal; which was, accordingly, steadily, but courteously declined. He had, at that time, no provision himself to leave for his family; his health was, at best, precarious; and his earthly prospects such as not to encourage much of hope. But the one eternal motive, that which impelled him to take thought first for his son's spiritual welfare, overbalanced every other; and his determination was formed upon the single consideration, "What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" "No," he said; "I will not for my child choose wealth before worth. "Tis true, my life is uncertain. But my dependance is on God. And should I be taken suddenly away, the public will, I am persuaded, make a provision for my children."

The hour was at hand when the sincerity of this declaration was to be tested. In the year 1805, he was seized with fever. He felt that the hand of death was upon him; and calling Mrs. Kirwan to his bedside, he said to her, with great solemnity and impressiveness, "My dear, I fear that this illness may prove fatal; and if I am taken away, I am persuaded that the proposal from London will be pressed upon you again; but do not yield to it. Let nothing tempt you to peril our child's eternal happiness." His weeping wife, who was so soon to be a widow, gave the promise required; and before twelve hours elapsed he was no more!

It happened as he had apprehended. The offer from London was pressingly renewed; and the disconsolate widow, in her sudden desolation, was so little the mistress of her thoughts and actions, that she suffered the child to be removed thither a removal which was, indeed, accomplished almost without her knowledge; so utterly unconscious was she, in her state of woful bewilderment, of all that was passing around her. But as soon as ever she recovered the perfect use of her faculties, she remembered her dying husband's words, and her son was brought home to her again.

His death, after so short an illness, was felt like a shock, not only in Dublin, but throughout the whole country. So large was the space which he filled in the public eye, and so great was the influence he exerted, as the creator and sustainer of countless charities-so justly were his transcendent talents regarded with national pride and admiration, and so deeply was he revered for the unostentatious piety and simplicity of his domestic life-so Catholic was the spirit by which he was actuated, and so little had he ever said or done to provoke from any party angry polemical recriminations, that his removal was felt as a bereavement by society in general; and Ireland mourned over his loss, as if but one heart beat in the bosoms of all her children; and all sects and parties united to do honour to the memory of the great departed, who was felt as a common benefactor by them all.

His funeral was attended by all the good and all the great men of whom the country could boast; amongst whom Grattan was distinguished as the chief mourner. Between these great men the tenderest intimacy subsisted; and never was the patriot more afflicted, than when the unexpected tidings reached him that his friend had been summoned to another world. His immediate relatives became alarmed for his safety, and it was some time before he recovered from the transport of agonizing grief into which he was plunged; and, when taking a last look at the grave which closed upon the mortal remains of one whose genius and whose virtues he almost worshipped, he was heard to say, in his own peculiar manner, with an intense and passionate earnestness, "Thou greatest of preachers, and thou best of men-farewell !"

But, perhaps, the most touching parts of the procession were the long lines of charity children, arranged according to their respective schools, by which it was attended. The female orphans, in particular, who felt in his loss a second orphanage, drew a tearful notice from many an eye, as they proceeded, under the conduct of their gracious and benevolent patroness, Mrs. Peter La Touche, the last tribute to their friend and their father. "Alas! who was now to pay to be their advocate!" was the sad reflection of the beholders. Who was now to plead their cause, and guarantee to them a refuge and a protection from the miseries of the world? Truly, never was a private loss so felt like a public; and never was a public loss so felt like a private!

And yet, nothing has been since done worthily to mark their sense of his