Gilbert Gurney [A novel.] By

Front matter

COLLECTION OI ANCIENT AND MODERN BRITISH AUTHORS. VOL. C XXVIII. GILBERT GURNEY. PRINTED BY ]. SMITH, 16, RUE MONTMOHENCY. GILBERT GURNEY. BY THEODORE HOOK, AUTHOR OF " SAYINGS AND DOINGS,'' " LOVE AND PRIDE," &c. PARIS, BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY. BUB DO COQ, NEAR Til P. LOUVRE. SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, HUE DE LA PAIX ; TRUCHY, BOULEVARD DES HAL1ENS ; THEOPHILE B/IRROIS, JUN., RUE RICHELIEU; LIBKA1RIE DES ETKANGERS. RUE NEUVE 8A1NT-AUOU8TIN; AND HE1DELOFF AND CAMPE, RUE VIVIENNE. 183(1

ADVERTISEMENT.

. Several of the following chapters have already appeared in print. Two of the incidents contained in them have been dramatized ; one on the French, and the other on the English stage. This circumstance, which has been noticed by one of the ablest and most impartial of our periodicals (the Athenæum), has arisen from tbe fact of the Editor's having, in society, frequently described the events which actually occurred many years since. He does not, however, think this a sufficient reason for omitting them in his bundle of gleanings from the late lamented Mr. Gurney's papers, in which they stand originally recorded.

Chapter I

When I resolved upon committing to paper sundry passages of my life, I determined most carefully lo abstain from Ihe perpetration of a piece of autobiography — not because the public has been somewhat surfeited wilh thai kind of literature; since, if I have my will, my memoranda ofthe scenes and circumstances which I have witnessed, and which have occurred lo me, will never meel ihe publiceye — but because, for Ihe most part, " Reminiscences," and " Livesand Times," and the like, are extremely tiresome to read, seeing lhat the mailers and evenls, incidenls and occurrences, which are, or were al Ihe lime at which Ihey were set down, all of great importance lo the recording in dividual, have (as all those books savour sadly of senility) lost all interest for the reader, long before they reach his eye.

Nevertheless and notwithstanding, such is Ihe force of habit, and ruchthe dominition of principle, lhat, for ihe life of me, I cannot pre vail upon myself to leave my notes huddled together without some thing like arrangement, nor without just so much nolice of myself and my family as may serve to account for my curious wanderings over the face of the earth, and for many of the transactions in which I have been doomed to bear a principal part. Begin we, therefore, with the beginning. " A figfor yourdates," says the Smyrna man to the Tunisian. Nevertheless, in this place, dates are really essential, as marking Ihe progress of the writer through his chequered career. Be patient, reader, whomsoever thou mayst chance to be, and I will be brief. I was born in the same year, and in the same month of the same year, as Lord Byron — but eight days later — on the 30lh of January — a memorable day, too.

I always felt a sort of sympathetic self-satisfaction as Byron advanced in age and reputation, in the recollection that — although, with my inherent respect for his rank and talents, I could not possibly take the liberty of coming into Ihe world before him — I began my life so nearly about the same period. There was, nevertheless, something very disheartening to me in Ihe 1* sombre seriousness of my jour de fete. I would rather have been born on the anniversary of a victory or a coronation. Let me be ever so good a boy, I could enjoy no holiday on my birth— day — never could be taken to a play — seeing that the theatres were all closed ; and moreover, and above this, I lost twelve thousand pounds which my godfather, the late Sir Charles Smith, would have les t me , if I had been christened afler him, ashe had proposed, and my parents had intended: but, happening to be born upon Ihe anniversary of Ihe martyrdom of our too conceding king, my sire, somewhat superstitious, would not hear of my bearing the same name as (he unfortunate monarch ; — so I was christened Gilbert, and lost my legacy, Sir Charles having taken huff at my not being named afler him, as our old friend Pepys did at Mrs. Brown's, where he and Sir William Penn were godfathers, and Mrs. Jordan and Shipman godmothers to her boy — that being Ihe king's birlh-day, upon which Pepys rose early and put six spoons and a silver porringer into his pocket to give away ; but in the sequel did give the midwife ten shillings, and the nurse five shillings, and the maid of Ihe house two shillings ; — "yel forasmuch as he expected to give his name to the child, but did not (it being called John), he forbore, then, to give his plate."

Thus, by similar mishaps, did Gilbert Gurney lose twelve thousand pounds, and John Browne a porringer and six spoons. The saying goes that it is "a wise child who knows his own father.'' For myself it is a disparagement neither to my own personal wisdom nor to my mother's unquestionable character, to admit that I knew very little of mine. A faint vision of a large red face, a white head, a black tail, and a brown walking-stick, floats in my mind, the possessor of which I was taught in infancy to respect as my parent. He died, however, before I was three years old, in the house in which he had lived for upwards of twenty years, and in which I was born ; it stood in Bolsover-slreet, Cavendish-square, — a street which no longer exists, thanks to the extraordinary improvements which have taken place in that part of the metropolis; it having, several years since, subsided into a chaos of old materials, whence has arisen one of the most magnificent promenades in Europe.

Like the Dragon's teeth, the buried bricks of former houses have given birlh to a legion of palaces. I remember our particular house perfectly ; the front parlour had two windows looking to the street, over the blinds of which I recollect my father had a strange propensity for looking out at the passengers; and so earnestly did he indulge in the pursuit (if standing still, ma>be so called), that in its enjoyment he would remain intently walching the most trifling occurrence which came under his observation, with his nose flattened against the pane, as little aware of the circumstance as the anxious hero who stuck his spear through his fool without knowing it, while leaning his chin on the reversed end of it walching the fate of a battle. I remember, too, that opposite to the windows, one of which, thai nearest the fire-place, was the solace of my parent's leisure, them was a recess in which stood a sideboard, perpetually decorated wilh cruets, beakers, and glasses, and three mahogany cases, two for smart-handled knives, and one in the centre for spoons, over which sideboard was affixed to the panel (for the room was wainscotted), a round mirror, encircled with gilt boluses, supporting two branches for candles ; and over the mantel-piece hung a portrait of my father him self, when a smart young man, by an artist of the name of Abbot, who obtained a reputation for painting Lord Nelson more than once, and who, I recollect, lost his life by swallowing, as a draught, a mixture sent him from an apothecary to be used as a gargle.

The drawing-room had three windows in it ; over the fire-place there hung a picture of my mother, by Wheatley, and in one panel at the side was a portrait of my sister Jane, who died before I was born ; and in the other a likeness of my brother Cuthbert, who was seventeen years my ?enior, and in India at the time of which I now speak. My grandfather I never saw; he was a physician in Ihe West of England, or rather, as I suspect, an apothecary, etc., for I never could find his name in any old list of the college. He set my father to study Ihe law, who, being deficient either in talent or industry, soon found, to use a colloquial phrase in a double sense, that "he could make nothing of it ;" he, therefore, abandoned it as a profession, and marry ing soon afterwards, the old gentleman contributed liberally during his lifetime to support the establishment of the young couple, and at his death bequeathed them a fortune perfectly adequate to all their wants and wishes.

My mother's maiden name was Gataker, and my father, who has been represented to me as a proud man, was very vain of the con nexion. The earliest of her ancestors married a Miss Jocosa Burley, but the one from which, it seemed, she claimed to descend, was a clergyman who had been married four times. Certain it is, that I have at this moment a seal of my father's arms impaled with those of his wife; and there I find the lion rampant per tess, sable and gules, and tbe cross pattee fleury with blue tips. My father never was known so seriously and suddenly to lose his lemper as when he was thought to be descended from the Norfolk Gur neys (not that a more honourable or respectable family exists ; and quite sure am I that a monarch might be proud of a connexion wilh one of ils members, whose noble heart and charitable disposition would do honour to a throne) ; because he fancied bis to be an elder branch of the house, and that he sprang from Ihe De liourneys, while they were yet resident at Le Brai, before the conquest ; and so satisfied of Ibis tact was he, that nothing but a request from my mother to Ihe contrary prevented his christening, or rather naming, my eldest brother Cuth bert, Eudes, after his pet ancestor, who assumed the name of Gournay, when Rollo, at the division ofNeuslria, amongst his adherents, be stowed upon him Ihe fortress so called.

All Ihis was a question of time and history, but hence arose his firm conviction that, instead of the junior, it was the elder branch of the family that settled in Somersetshire, and lhat the Gurneys of Barcw Gurney and Inglishcombe, wilh all the accumulation of Ihe Harpetree properly, had of right the precedence of the Gurneys of Keswick. Of the plain blue "cross on his shield my father was justly proud; and his gurnet capsized upon his chapeau gules, was to him a point of no little importance; and having not only great respect for his memory, but strong faith in his accuracy, I have continued to use the same arms and crest even up to the present moment, without doubt, hesitation, or disturbance of mind. I pass over the first sixteen or seventeen years of my career at a dash — per saltum.

My school life was not a happy one. I was idle and careless of my tasks — I had no aptitude for learning languages — I haled Greek, and absolutely shuddered at Hebrew — I fancied myself a genius, and any thing that could be done in a hurry and with little trouble, I did tolerably well — but application I had not; and when my excellent mother (who survived her husband eighteen years) suggested to me, on the advice of Mr. Graham, a most worthy man and excellent magistrate, to enter myself of Lincoln's-inn and commence the study of the law, I could not help calling to her mind the history she had herself told me of my father's signal defeat in the same pursuit. There is something extremely vague in the term studying for Ihe bar — in seven cases out of ten it means doing nothing, under a gentlemanly pretence; in mine nothing could be more unlike what it pro fessed to be; I paid my entrance-money, gave rny caution, and thence forth proceeded to " mine Inn" for four or five days in each term, threw on my gown, walked into hall, and dreading the fatigue of even eating professionally, wrote down my name and walked out again.

It was necessary, however, to satisfy my kind and anxious molher, who, with something more like certainty than ever I considered justi fiable by appearances, anticipated my elevation to either the Woolsack or the King's Bench — the latter by far the more probable — that I should put myself under somebody who might do me the favour of permillin" me lo copy his papers gratis, while he did her the kindness of taking three hundred pounds per annum out of her pocket in return for his : and accordingly I was harnessed under the inspection and direction of the worthy magistrate whose name I have already men tioned, and confided to the care of a very learned gentleman of the profession, who, al the lime of my writing this, is filling a situation not very far below one of those which my too fond parent, in the ardour of her affection, had destined for my occupation.

What might have been the result of my serious application to the dry drudgery of this learned man's office it is impossible for me to surmise. It so hap pened that the experiment was destined never to be tried, for, among my fellow-pupils al bis chambers, there was one whose society and conversation I found so much more agreeable than the elaborated tau tology over which I had to pore from ten o'clock in the morning till ten at night — dinner alone intervening — that I gradually relaxed from a regular attendance upon my work, first, to a gentle indifference, and Ihen to an absolule aversion and distaste for Ihe whole pursuit. My young companion was a bit of a poet, a bit of an artist, a bit of a musician, and above all, — to me at the period delightful, — a bit of an actor. He knew several of the regular actors — they visited at his father's house — I was invited by my young friend, and met Charles Kemble and MatheWs.

The latter at that period was new lo London — his merits were not yet appreciated — he wanted that nerve and con fidence which subsequent patronage and ultimate success inspired. I well remember the evening. Charles Kemble was grave and gentle manly ; but Malhews, although quite gentlemanly enough forall earthly purposes, was gay as a lark. He gave us imitations and personifica tions. There, yel unseen by metropolitan eyes, his old Frenchman, his old Scotswoman, all the bright and vivid pictures, now grown familiar to the public, were exhibiled lo us fresh in all Ihe charms of no vellv. Thai night decided me as to Lincoln's Inn — not that I intended to mount the stage myself, but after seeing that exquisite mimic, the best actor off the stage that ever lived, I resolved to put into execution a design which I had previously imparted to my young friend — a design no other than lhat of writing a farce for one of the theatres.

The moment this notable scheme took possession of whal I tancied my brain, law was at an end ; I had no patience with the parchments. As that witty (now veteran) George Colman the younger says in his "Beckoning wilh Time," — which, by the by, be wrote when he was five and forly, and fancied himself old, — Congreve beat Blackstone hollow. And in my crown no pleas faarl Hale To supersede Apollo." It is quite clear that when a man takes whal is called a fancy, the one pursuit is paramount. A geologist will lell you that there is nothing s GILBERT GURNEY. in the world so interesting, so engrossing, so captivating, as peram bulating a dull and miserable country, chipping off bits of rock, and scooping out lumps of clay. He sees no beauty in Richmond Hill — his only delight is in discovering and telling you of what it is composed.

The finest mountain in the world has no charm for his eye in the mass. No; to be agreeable to him, he must go and knock a little bit of it off, and wrap up that little bit of dirt in a little bit of paper, and carry it lo Somerset-house, and then take another little bit of paper, and write a history of it. To ordinary folks nothing can be much more dull than such a course of proceeding ; to the geologist it is delight — upon me the particular taste for dramatic-writing had a similar effect : Act I. Scene I. — "Enter Sir Jeremy Bootjack ;" delightful thought! — there I saw him dressed as nobody ever was dressed in his life — he, the said Sir Jeremy, appearing in a sort of mongrel full dress, wilh jockey tops and a pig-tail : whilst all the lovers and Iheir ladies were to be flirting and torn-fooling about in the costume of the then present day.

But what was all that tome? Munden and Dowton, and all those men, wore court suits, and jack boots, and cocked hats, and pigtails ; and I was sure it was right, and solo work I went ; bought three or four French vaudevilles (which, it being then war-time, were not quite so easy of access as they became after Ihe Duke of Wellington had set Europe to rest and raised England to the pinnacle of glory, whence smaller people lhan his Grace have been every day dragging her down), and, filching an incident from each, made up my very effective drama. Young as I was at that time, and inexperienced in such matters, a little observation assured me lhat the English audiences, who are, in point of fact, as undramatic in their notions as Methodists, would not be satisfied with a single incident, which, on the foreign stage, amply serves to amuse and delight.

The French go to a play prepared to view the affair theatrically, and are ready to catch the slightest allusion, and enter into the spirit of the author — with the English it is necessary to thump in your meaning, to make every effect clear " to the meanest comprehension," or else you fail ; and as to incidents, there must be a dozen in a farce, one after the other, if you mean that people should laugh or be pleased. This being clearly the case, I set to work, and, as I have just said, crammed the materials of some four or five light French pieces into my maiden drama (as an Indian cook sticks kabobs upon a skewer), and was, when I had finished it, convinced that I had at least equalled Foote, emulating therein the exultation which a dramatist of our own day expressed at having given "Billy the go by" Billy meaning Shakspeare ! — I recollect so well Ihe anxiety with which I copied out my MS., the infinite pains I took to dash and underline the points which I felt quite confident would sel (he house iu a roar, and the nervous solicitude with which I read my first effort to my young friend, who had promised when il was finished to present it to tlie manager.

My exemplary molher, who had a sort of instinctive horror of actors and actresses, was not slow to find out the enormity — as she thought it — of which I had been guilty. Something fell from my young friend during a visit which we were paying her, which developed the impor tant secret — for such I intended it to be ; and the result of the dis covery was the following letter. Upon recording which, it may be as well to observe that my surviving parent had, shortly afler my admis sion into Lincoln's-inn, given up her house in Bolsover-street, and retired to Ihe neighbourhood of Teddington, leaving me in possession of some ready-furnished lodgings in Great Suffolk-street, Hayniarket. But for the letter — here it is : — Teddington, May 8, 18 — " My dearest Gilbert, — I take up my pen wilh regret to address you upon a subject to which I once before slightly alluded, and upon which I am quite aware our opinions are at variance.

" I think I may assure myself of your readiness to give me credit for an anxious desire for your happiness as well as your respectability, and for having no wish either to curtail Ihe enjoymenls which your income justifies, or to restrain the amusements which are congenial to your age and inclinations; but there is one point upon which I feel it my duty to speak out, — to warn you of dangers by which what appears a most innocent pursuit is environed, and to endeavour, if possible, to check you in a career which I know you are on the point of beginning, or, perhaps, have actually begun — I mean lhat of a dramatic author. " I dare say you will laugh at me for my apprehensions, and even ridicule the partiality which, in the midst of my fears, magnifies my son into a "dramatic author," because, as I happen to know, he has written a farce.

Everything has a beginning ; and if this farce be produced and succeeds, it will only be the first of a lengthened race ; if it fail, you will be exposed lo the ridicule of the newspapers and the green-room. Why adopt such an alternative? " Now, understand me, my dear Gilbert. Do not imagine thai 1 feel any of those blind and determined prejudices against actors and ac tresses which you have, more than once, half playfully and half in earnest, accused me of maintaining. I have no doubt that they may be extremely worthy persons in their way. What I contend for is, that while pursuing your studies for a serious avocation, in which no success can be hoped for, without sedulous attention, it will be ruinous to associate wilh a class of men and women whose whole existence i* one tissue of aiiiiicialilj ; who see nature not in her proper, colours, but through the darkened medium of theatrical lamp-light, and who, from the constant mechanical repetition ofexallcd sentiments, the personifi cation of conflicting passions, and the assumption of a diversity of cha: racters, are rendered callous to the realities of life,— except when they may personally affect their own interests, — and are imbued with a conlcmplfor those principles and qualities which they habitually treat as mere matters of acting.

" It is curious to observe, although the effect may be extremely natural, how the force 6f habit weakens the value and importance of Ihe mosl serious objects in our existence. How different are the feelings of (be man who administers an oalh to a witness in a court of justice from those of (he individual lo whom it is tended ! The undertaker's man at a funeral, if he be serious at all, is sad only in Ihe way of business. No ceremony of that nature or character could be made either solemn or affecting lo him. The bulcher never could be brought lo pity the struggles of a dying Iamb. The dramatic performer, in the same way, talks of honour, and virtue, and the best affections of the heart, like a parrot; and although, here and there, there may be one whose taste for literatureinduces him to dwell upon some splendid passages of our great dramatic poets, he speaks and thinks even of those professionally, — and considers them relatively to the 'effect' they will produce in the delivery, and not with reference to Ihe principles they inculcate or the virtues Ihey applaud.

" But it is not with the individuals I quarrel; nor is it just that a universal censure should be applied to a community in which there are, no doubt, many exceptions to the general rule. It is to the art, or calling, and to the pursuits connected with it, I object, as affecting the study of the law. I hatelccluring, and, indeed, am not well qualified for it ; but experience convinces me that the avocations of the lawyer and the dramatist are incompatible. You need not tell me that there are many attractions in the prospect of success as a dramatist, which, to a very young man, are in a high degree alluring — the facility which it affords to an introduction to the gay and lively, the entree lo the playhouses, — the society of wils, — the association with talent and beauty. But ask yourself, my dear child, whether these enticements are to be admitted or rejected.

Look round, and see whether any in stance exists of high professional success in any other pursuit, where the equivocal avocation of play-writing has been adopted." I recollect perfectly well Ihrowing down my mother's letter when I came to this passage, absolutely indignant at Ihe supposition of the in compatibility of my two pursuits. But when I came lo the examination of facts, I found myself unable to make out a ease Sheridan was my strong hold : but lhal failed me; for although his genius placed him iu the first ranks of society (and he was then yet in full strength and vigour), he had never established himself in a profession. Murphy was a barrister ; but although he was a good dramatic author, he never shone at the bar. Our own George Colman, wilh talent equal to any thing, began wilh the law; he became an admirable dramatist, but no lawyer.

Then I bethought me of Addison, whose one great play established him in (he highest class of dramatic authors, but I found myself little better off; for her, like Sheridan, made no figure in any learned profession : hul having been for many years avowedly "a man of letters," married Lady Warwick, got into Parliament, and was made Secretary of Slate. Now, said I, I have my triumph. I'll quote Addison upon my exemplary parent. But no : what his biographer says of him settled that question: — :"In 1717 he rose to his highest elevation, being made Secretary of Slate ; but it is universally confessed that he was unequal to the duties ofthe place." This, considering the Secretaries of State we have since seen flourishing in office, was ralher a damper to my ardour in his behalf. " In the House of Commons he could not speak, and therefore was useless to Ihe Government.

In the office he could not issue an order without losing his time in quest of line expressions. NYhat he gained in rank he lost in credit, and finding by experience his own inability, was forced to solicit his dismission with a pension of 15007. a-year. His friends palliated Ihis relinquishment, of which both friends and enemies knew the true reason, with an account of declining health, and the necessity of recess and quiet. He now returned to his vocation, and began to plan literary occupations for his future life. He prepared a tragedy on Ihe death of Socrates, and " » Here I threw down the book in despair. The author, incompetent to the fulfilment of high office in real life, returns from Ihe station to which he had ascended, and, resuming bis vocation, prepares a tra gedy. This vexed me.

Congreve was my next attempt. He died in honour aud inaflluence, and his body lay in slate in the Jerusalem Chamber, and the Duke of Bridgewater, and Lord Godolphin, and Lord Wilmington, and the Lord knows whom besides, were pall-bearers. What could my exemplary parent say to that? — When I asked Ihe "authorities, '' they an swered me, that " Congreve was sent to school al Kilkenny, andlhence to the University of Dublin, where he acquired a perfecl skill in all the branches of polite literature; a little after the revolution in 1GS.S, he was sent over (o London, and placed in Ihe Middle Temple, hul — " — What did I see? — " the law proving too dry for him, he troubled GILBERT GURNEi himself little with it, and continued to pursue his former studies." He brought out his ;'Old Bachelor" in 169.3, and " Well," said I, " here is another break-down ; but still his admir able plays have procured for him an immortal reputation.

What signified the law to him? He must have been as proud of his place in society as any Lord Chief Justice in Christendom." There again was I wrong, for Voltaire has recorded of him quite the contrary. "He raised the glory of comedy," says Voltaire, " lo a greater height than any English writer before or since cur time — he wrote only a few plays, but they were excellent in their kind — the laws of Ihe drama are strictly observed in them." This praise elated and delighted me : whal immediately follows I confess surprised me — " They abound with characters which are shadowed with the utmost delicacy, and we meet with not so much as one low or cOarse jest." Whal can more strongly mark the difference which exists between the manners and conversation of Congreve's day and our own? In order to render Congreve's comedies endurable on the modern stage, more than one-third of the dialogue is now either omitted or greatly modified — a circumstance which gave rise to that witty observation of Sheridan's, who, after witnessing the representation of " Love for Love," purified for the refined modern public, said, — " This is not Congreve's play — the popular fastidiousness has ruined it — such prunings for propriety's sake are like the emasculation of animals; you eradicate their vice, but you destroy their vigour."