The individual alluded to in the conclusion of the preceding article was
J⸺ G⸺,
than whom a more extraordinary character has not of late years, appeared
as a candidate for public notice.
He was born, if we mistake not, in the Island of St. Christopher’s, in
the West-Indies. He was the presumed heir to considerable property, but
this was the subject of legal dispute. In the interval, J⸺ was sent to
England for his education, and being placed under the care of the late
eminent surgeon, Mr. Bromfield, he was by that gentleman consigned to
Doctor, at that time Mr. Parr. Mr. Parr having been disappointed in
his views of succeeding Dr. Sumner in the head mastership of Harrow
school, had established himself in its vicinity, at Stanmore, whither he
brought with him many of his former pupils, sons of noblemen, and other
distinguished persons.
G⸺ soon gave proofs of the greatest abilities, and had he, fortunately
for himself and the world, pursued his natural propensities for literary
pursuits, he would, beyond all doubt, have shone as a star of the first
magnitude, and avoided the miserable fate, which at a premature period,
removed him from the world. But he was all fire—a real child of the
sun—without deliberation or reflection, without care or thought of
remoter consequences, he yielded implicitly to the first impulses of
his mind, and was too proud and too lofty to retract or recede. Most
unluckily, at the moment when G⸺ was beginning to feel the consciousness
of his intellectual superiority, the poisonous and malignant seeds of
the French Revolution had shewn their germs above the surface of the
earth, and were advancing to an ill-omened maturity. The delusive cry of
liberty always impresses the youthful mind with an impatient ardour, and
when properly disciplined and restrained, may afterwards display itself
in the zeal of a sound and honest patriotism, and eventually become the
parent of every manly virtue. But when the object of this ardour takes a
false name and wrong direction, when zeal is misled by an _ignis fatuus_,
and not by the genuine flame of real liberty—when the name of liberty is
made the stalking horse of ambition, the instrument of selfish ends and
motives, the tool of the demagogue, the whoop of a low and sanguinary
multitude, what great, what dire, and what deplorable mischiefs may be
expected, we have too disastrous a proof in the source, progress, and
history of the French Revolution.
It was this false fire which led J⸺ G⸺ astray, and with no ordinary
deviation. It was not like the error of an inconsiderate young man,
who for a time obeys the impulse of some particular passion, but on
reflection sees his danger, retraces his steps, and makes compensation
by acknowledging his indiscretion, and afterwards pursuing the safe and
straight line of duty. G⸺ all at once, like an unbroken colt, burst
every check and restraint, and bounded away over hill and dale, through
woods, over plains and rivers, with the impetuous and ungovernable fury
of the wildest buffalo. The word liberty being once sounded in his ears,
he dressed up her image in the gaudiest hues of a vivid imagination,
and bowed before it, with all the devotion of the most superstitious
idolatry.
In the interval, however, but it is not pretended to be particularly
accurate as to chronological periods, G⸺ returned to the West-Indies,
where he married, and had a son and a daughter. There he left his wife
and children, and coming back to England, immediately took an active
part in the busy and perilous scenes which were then exhibiting. His
former and natural love of literature was totally forgotten, or rather
absorbed, by the boundless prospects presented to his political ambition.
He had made some preparations to be called to the bar, but all ideas of
entering upon any profession, were now contemptuously thrown aside, and
conventions, corresponding societies, committees, delegates, &c. danced
before his disturbed fancy, in all the mazes of political confusion.
Finally, he became a zealous and active member of the Corresponding
Society, and in the year 1793, had, what to his infatuated mind appeared
no ordinary distinction, the high honour of being elected with Maurice
Margarot (_par nobile fratrum_) as a delegate to what was absurdly
denominated the British Convention, which assembled at Edinburgh.
Here be it permitted to pause awhile, and lament the waywardness of this
man’s mind. There was no eminence in any profession to which he might
not have aspired, and had he pursued any other path but the delusive one
which obtained his partial preference, he might have lived in dignified
independence, and left a revered and honoured name behind him. His
temper, it must be confessed, was not of the most conciliating kind, and
like most of the lovers of reform, and advocates of liberty and equality,
he was tyrannical, insolent, imperious, and overbearing.
Among his other qualifications, he had considerable theatrical talents,
and when very young, performed the arduous character of Zanga in
the Revenge, to the admiration and delight, of a numerous and very
enlightened assembly.
The individuals with whom he ostensibly lived in the greatest
familiarity, were his old master, Dr. Parr, Mr. (now Sir James)
Mackintosh, his old school-fellow, the Historian of Hindostan, Mr.
Sheridan, Dr. Raine, and the editors of those papers more particularly
pre-eminent in their opposition to the measures of government, and their
countenance of the French Revolution.
But it is now well known, that he had other unavowed connections;
that, like Jaffier, he had his midnight divan, where he presided as
Autocratist. His principles gave way, either to the contagion of the low
and mean herd, with whom he finally associated, or were made subservient
to his political schemes and projects. He once had the candour to make
this acknowledgment himself; but he ultimately threw off all regard to
decorum; lived in open licentiousness, and indulged in every sensual
irregularity.
His writings of a particular kind were very numerous, but chiefly
consisted of small pamphlets, letters, and paragraphs; all of them
characterized by great vigour and acuteness. His most extensive work was
entitled, “A Convention the only Means of saving us from Ruin,” which was
distinguished by its extraordinary boldness, and contemptuous disregard
of existing authorities.
The melancholy sequel of his story is well known; but it may be a
public benefit, and operate as a beacon to the young and unwary, here
to recapitulate it. The writer of this article saw him for the last
time, when he was about to take his departure for Scotland, to surrender
himself for trial. He evaded the recollection of an old acquaintance.
There was a haggard wildness in his looks, a disorder in his air, a sort
of despondency in his demeanour, which made an indelible impression.
He was for a long time confined in Newgate, on his way from Scotland to
fulfil his sentence of transportation to Botany Bay. Here his pride was
gratified, and his mental exacerbation soothed, by a crowd of visitors,
some of whom were of no mean rank. It is singular to say, but the fact
is indisputable, that while he was in Newgate, orders for Drury-lane
Theatre, with the signature of J⸺ G⸺, were admitted. This may well excite
surprize, but when this was written, there were many living evidences
able to bear testimony to the fact.
Another thing too, which may at first view appear alike difficult of
belief, is, that whilst he was in Newgate, Lord Melville (then Mr.
Dundas) sent to him, and offered to be the instrument of obtaining
his free pardon, on condition of his signing a paper, purporting his
determination to conduct himself for the time to come, as a peaceable and
quiet subject. This he positively and ungraciously refused—refused too at
a moment, when his health was obviously giving way to the irregularities
of his life, and the perturbation of his mind; when he had great reason
to think, that he was going to certain and inevitable death.
Various offers of money were made him by private persons: these also
he pertinaciously rejected. He was well supplied elsewhere. One thing,
however, unfortunately for himself, he did not refuse, namely, that
which undermined and finally destroyed his constitution—he indulged in
the fatal habit of drinking spirits. He departed for the place of his
destination, without any ostensible depression of spirits, and, as might
be anticipated, he returned no more.
The writer of this sketch has heard, and so have many others, Porson
relate a singular anecdote of G⸺. He had occasionally met Porson, but
though perhaps on one or two topics, there might exist something like
community of sentiment between them, intimacy was out of the question. G⸺
was too fierce and boisterous, and had of late years too much neglected
those pursuits which absorbed Porson’s attention altogether, to make them
at all likely to assimilate.
Porson was one morning at his solitary breakfast in the Temple, when
G⸺ called upon him, accompanied by a female. He desired permission
and materials to write a letter. After spending a considerable time,
in reading, writing, altering and consulting his female companion, he
finished his letter, and returning thanks to the Professor, took his
leave.
Porson saw no more of him for an interval of three years, when (and
Porson’s accuracy might always be trusted in what related to memory) on
that very day three years, precisely the same scene was repeated. G⸺
came a second time, at the same hour, accompanied by the same female,
requested leave and materials to write a letter, consulted his companion
as before, and having finished what he was about, in like manner took
his leave, and departed. Porson saw him no more.
G⸺ left a son; by the benevolence of private friends, he was educated at
the Charter-house, and is now occupied in some of the various branches of
the law.
Desine blanditias et verba potentia quondam
Perdere, non ego sum stultus, ut ante fui.