a reign of terror. Trial by law was a contemptible farce, a wretched mockery, a bare formality; the number of persons executed by law fell far short of those sacrificed in butcheries and burnings by a barbarous soldiery let loose upon an unoffending and defenceless people. In times like these Curran stood alone. In pleading the cause of the accused he had to run the danger of being supposed to sympathize with their sentiments and conduct; and in paying them the humane tribute of his advocacy, he had to incur the rancorous hatred of those who tortured and oppressed them. Pathos was a remarkable feature of Curran's eloquence. He had the soul of a true poet, and tenderness, and melancholy, and pity, those soft, sweet, sad emotions, are the noblest treasures in the poet's soul. They were essentially his; he loved solitude, and often attuned his soul to the solemn tones of his violoncello, when no one else was nigh. He loved to play old Irish airs; their sadness pleased him, and their occasional loveliness gave to the sombre clouds of his thoughts their silver lining. Those sad strains nurtured within him the sympathies awakened by the actual contemplation of his country's wrongs. He wept and sighed, and lamented over her desolation; there was a 'music, a rhythm in his speech according exquisitely with the passion of his thoughts, so that the whole might seem to the rapt listener the wail of one of Sion's children attuned to the melancholy music of his harp on the lonely rivers of Babylon. "He was one of those," says a distinguished writer (Giles) "whose thoughts make melody in conception, and which coming into words are born into song. All his faculties were musical, his intellect, his imagination, his emotions; and these, all having spontaneous union and utterance in his eloquence, made that eloquence the witchcraft and magic that it was. This made it different from all other eloquence, not in power, but in kind; it was not so much the eloquence of logic as of enchantment, not so much like the sword of Goliath as like the harp of David." Curran's humor was often such that one would not know whether to say it was laughable or serious; it became so severely sarcastic. Thus, on one occasion, when contesting an election, he said to the voters of the rival candidate, that "they might be seen coming like the beasts of the field, in droves, from their pastures, presenting a picture of human nature, in the state of degradation such as never Of an had been witnessed since Nebuchadnezzar was at grass." Irish secretary, for whom he had a great contempt, he said, when inveighing against him, that he would not imitate the Roman tyrant's practice of "torturing insects." He described an English ministry as "a motley group, without virtue, or character, or talents; the sort of Cabinet we have laughed at on the stage, where the 'potent, grave, and reverend seignors' were composed of scene-shifters and candle-snuffers, robed in old curtains, and wigged from the stores of the theatre." On another occasion he spoke of "the princely virtues and imperial qualifications, the consummate wisdom and sagacity of our steadfast friend and ally, the Emperor of all the Russias - a constellation of all virtue, compared with whose radiance the Ursa Major but twinkles as the glowworm." Curran is supposed by some to be one of those who established what has been called the school of Irish eloquence, that is, fervid, impassioned oratory, appealing to the feelings, and careless of impressing the intellect. This style of eloquence is spoken of with contempt, and justly should it be so, if the speaker did not convince the reason as well as move the heart; and, no doubt, our country has produced many such speakers, gifted by nature with a wondrous flow of words, sparkling with imagery, heated with passion, vivid with Celtic fire. We meet them in private life, we meet them on the public platform. The village pedagogue is peculiar to Ireland; the man who uses words of "learned length and thundering sound;" who mistakes paraphrases for oratory, and sound for sentiment; the village poet is no less racy of the Irish soil; the dreamer who is ever wandering in the bright morning of May, by the green banks of some sparkling river, where he encounters a lovely damsel, who first declines his amorous attentions, but finally consoles him with her hand and heart. In no country in the world is a debate so warmly and enthusiastically, and so eloquently, conducted as in Ireland. There the oratory on both sides is so fairly balanced that victory is often impossible without the intervention of the fists or the blackthorn, which has an effect far more stunning than wordy arguments on an adversary. Yes, there is an Irish school of oratory, and it was about Curran's time it came into vogue. When, indeed, was there such occasion for it? When the speaker's passions were aroused by the contemplation of the cruelties with which his country was visited, and the sufferings his countrymen endured, the coldest nature should be eloquent, when speaking of those atrocious deeds. The grandest specimens of eloquence ever recorded in history were delivered in times of great social strife, great national upheaving, amid the ruins of a country, or over the cradle of a young revolution. It was towards the close of the Hebrew nationality that their prophets started up and proclaimed the ruin and captivity about to befal thei fellow-countrymen. What eloquence can compare with that of Isaiah, sublime and impassioned? or with Jeremiah, wailing and despondent over the calamities of their race? Demosthenes flourished -- the greatest orator the world ever saw -- amid the crash of the Grecian republics. Cicero was the last orator of Rome: standing on the bridge that separated the prosperous Rome of the Consuls from the effete and degenerate Rome of the Cæsars. Mirabeau's eloquence flamed like a meteor amid the chaos of the French Revolution. So it was with Curran; he lived and spoke when his native land was steeped to the very lips in woe; when "'t was treason to love her, and death to defend." Manifold were the thoughts that stirred his brain and quickened his tongue; the ancient glory of his country, the virtues of her children, their courage and constancy, through every peril and misfortune; the gleam of sunshine, short and transient, beaming from the Irish Parliament, and its sudden extinction in the Act of Union. Here was food for thought; here was fuel for the fire of eloquence, pride, passion, glory, hope, and, last of all, despair! Peace be with thy ashes, John Philpot Curran, as they repose in the sacred soil of Glasnevin, and may thy memory be ever cherished with pride by the grateful descendants of those in fighting whose battles thou didst display the sublimest valor of her, BĐỀ the purest chastity of honor! LECTURE.* THE IRISH CHARACTER ANALYZED. OME weeks ago I had the honor to deliver a public lecture in this city on the History of Irish Music. The applause awarded to me on that occasion was such as I fancied no efforts of mine could have merited; but my modesty was put to a still severer test when some gentlemen informed me that it was the general wish of the public - at least of the Irish portion of the public - that I should lecture again before leaving Boston. So flattering an invitation it was impossible for me to decline, I promised to comply with the general desire, and I am here to redeem that promise. I know full well the love that Irishmen cherish for their country, and that no subject awakens their interest more keenly, or stirs their hearts more sensitively, than the subject of their native land. And, hence, there is scarcely a period of our history, a feature of our national character, or a biography of any of our great men, which has not, in its turn, formed the subject of a lecture in this country, as well as in the old land. One would think that Irish subjects would pall even on Irish ears, by such frequent repetition; but it is with the children of the Emerald Isle, as it is with the children of the Church. In the Church there has been but one short gospel for the last eighteen hundred years, and yet we hear it expounded to-day, at the hands of an able preacher, with all that freshness of interest which only a novelty, as we fancy, could produce. So the history of Ireland is but a plain record of constant persecution on the one hand, and constant resistance on the other, - a perpetual resistance against a superior and implacable power, and yet we never grow * Delivered in Boston, 1871. weary of the oft-told tale; we ever still find something new and inspiring in this simple gospel of our fatherland. -- I come to address you to-night on a subject of national interest, an analysis of the character of my fellow-countrymen; and, simply, because the subject is national, I am confident that I shall touch your hearts and enlist your sympathies. But I do not trust alone to the nature of my subject; I feel that I come before you as one thoroughly qualified to speak on any Irish subject, as far as one may be qualified by a long and large experience. I am Irish, myself, to the back-bone, aye, and to the very marrow of that cunning piece of mechanism. Born of Irish parents, on the banks of the Lee, within sound of the Shandon Bells, I should like to know who would have the courage to dispute the Hibernicism of my birth. Imbibing, when a schoolboy, my first lessons of patriotism from the glorious pages of the "Nation" newspaper, illumined then, as it was, by the calm vigor of a Duffy, the immortal fire of a Davis, and the weird majesty of a Clarence Mangan; later on, dipping in the fervid fountain of the young Ireland press: a fountain springing from a Parnassus, where the muses were invoked by such men as John Mitchell, Thomas D'Arcy Magee, and Thomas Francis Meagher, it is no wonder that my Irish heart beat with the true pulses of the patriot. During six years in Maynooth College, thrown amongst five hundred ardent young Irishmen, although we were endowed by the Government (which endowment, by the way, was only a wretched instalment of the millions they had stolen from us centuries before), I never forgot I was Irish. Officiating for eight years in the rural districts of the county, and for eight other years in the city of Cork, it is highly probable that I understand the state of my country; the condition and character of the Irish race in every walk of life, our virtues and our vices, our strength and our weakness; and that I am qualified to address my audience on that subject. The great faith and hope of Irishmen at home and abroad is that their country will yet be free. If they had not this hope, they would despair of the justice of the Almighty, who surely will not permit tyrants to prosper forever; in the realization of this hope they see a vindication of their country, a reparation for all she has endured through long ages of persecution, a compensation for all she has lost, a balm for her wounds, a consolation for the contempt and ignominy |