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.