Elizabeth Gunning

Miss Gunning. The Foresters. a Novel. Altered from the French by Miss Gunning.

London: Printed by and for Sampson Low, Berwick Street, Soho; and sold by C. Law, Ave-Maria Lane; and William Jackson, no. 198, Oxford Street, 1796.

 

Contemporary Reviews

English Review, 27 (1796), 274-77.

The Foresters; a Novel. Altered from the French. By Miss Gunning. In Four Volumes. pp. 775. 8vo. London: printed by and for Sampson Low, Berwick Street, Soho. 1796.

     This excellent novel, of which we can only give an opinion which it is altered, is far above the common style of compositions of this kind, as, together with much amusement, it [275] conveys a good moral lesson throughout the whole, and exposes, to the young and unexperienced, the danger and difficulties attendant on vows rashly made. The style is easy, such as might justly be expected from the pen of our fair and accomplished author. To give the story would take up more room than the limits of our publication allow.
     The great merit of this work consists in curiosity raised, and well kept alive, until the general denouement or catastrophe of the whole. The reader must judge of the work from a few extracts. We hsall give the introductory chapter in part, as it contrasts admirably the genius of town and country life, and the effect of the passions on a young unrestrained youth:
     'What is that on which depends the happiness of man's existence? It is our character. It is dependent, in a great measure, on the manner with which we accustom ourselves to discriminate objects; it is from our sentiments, from our affections only, that we derive our felicity. Do we desire to possess it in permanence, let us establish it in purity. Do we afterwards complain that we are unfortunate, let us look round, let us compare with our own the lot of other men, and we shall have very little reason for selfish lamentation.
     'Observe a raw youth, wrapped up in his own conceit-guided by his own will. With what impetuosity does he escape from the trammels of childhood; with what rashness does he madly run upon the world, tripping or falling at every second step. See him at the moment when death rids him of a troublesome preceptor, who would teach him what he has no relish for-the lessons of wisdom. Does he weep? does he mourn for his friend? No: his parents are gone before: this is the only stumbling-block in the way of his pleasures: he rejoices that this last bar is removed-he is sensible alone to what he calls his good fortune. But take care, young man, o the liberty thou so dearly prizest may turn to they destructions, one more brilliant than another, are crowding the path through which he is gallopping.-They put themselves into his reach, they invite him to lay hold of them-his joy is confused-his choice distracted-an at last, perhaps, he seizes on those by which he is the least captivated, merely because they happen to be the most popular-all is noise-hurry-dissipation. Our young voluptuary is every busy in doing nothing, yet wonders he has the power of doing so much: he has no complaint but the want of time-yet, in the progress of time, the very recollection of those delights he is now so eagerly pursuing are quite obliterated from his fleeting memory, whether it be those of lounging at [spectacles?] of deep play, or illicit love. Love! did I say? --ah! why refine a name so hallowed? Where is the affinity between inclination and innocent affection? The voice of one is horrible-for ever clamorous to the senses, but dos not proceed from the heart-brutal [insatiable?]-satisfied without choice. Such is inclination. Virtuous [276] love is a ray of the divinity, which the great Father of all mingles in our mental existence to soften our sorrows, to gladden our hearts, and to draw us nearer to himself.-But look once more at our poor victim of fashionable errors-see him, in the meridian of his career, reduced by disease to the shadow of his former self, the prey of ennuie-morose, peevish, devoured by the torments of conscience, yet ashamed to repose his feelings even in the bosom of his family.
     This picture of an inhabitant of a city is admirably set off by a description of the life of a peasant of Bearn.
     The hero of this novel is ignorant of the name and condition of his parents; he is set to college, and provided with a tutor, who is ignorant of his parentage as well as himself. At length a gentleman visits him in a mask, and is introduced by the tutor:
     'William,' cried he, 'Monsieur is the benefactor who has the goodness to provide for your wants-to give you the education of a gentleman. If you would merit the continuance of his favours, pursue the road you have taken-be grateful and be diligent.'
     'True,' said the unknown, 'I would have you grateful to the good Abbé Dumount for the kindness he bestows on you; you cannot respect him too much, or love him too well.'
     'William, covered with confusion, hardly knew what to reply in his fettered situation; he might be too diffuse, or he might not say enough; at last he stammered out his assurances of obedience to all the commands of his munificent protector; adding, nothing could shew the interest his parents took in his welfare so much as their having provided him with so worthy a tutor.
     'And who has told you,' exclaimed the mask in an angry tone, 'who has dared to make you suppose Dumount was chosen by your parents; and who are your parents?'
     'Ah! Monsieur,' returned William, ready to die at his sternness, 'be not displeased with the liberty of my expression. Alas! I do not know my parents-indeed I do not.-I am a poor orphan; I have not a friend to give me bread but yourself.-Will you, can you direct me where I might find them?'
     'Never,' said he in a softened voice, 'never, my dear boy, speak to me on the subject of your parents.'-'But,' cried William.-'But what?' hastily replied the other.
    'If you should happen to see my father, dear, dear Sir, be not angry with me; but I would ask you to tell him that his little William cannot exist out of his presence.-Tell him I look for him in every face that I behold-that cries issue from my soul, but no father will hear them.-Tell him that I would rather die at this feet than live from him in splendid banishment.'
     'He cannot shew himself to you; it is not to be done.'
     'Then,' retorted William, 'he must be a very insensible, or a very barbarous man; either nature does not speak to his heart, or he stifles her voice.-If he loved his son, he would overcome any [277] obstacles.-You listen to me-you shed tears.-Oh! that you would let me see your respectable countenance! Quit, O quit the unfriendly mask that hides the sensibility it cannot express! For pity's sake do not any longer conceal from me the father I reverence!'
     It may be perhaps observed, by critics, as a defect in the construction of the fable of this piece, that, from the singularity of the situation in which the hero is placed at his outset, something more wonderful than what really takes place is expected at the conclusion of this story; though others may perhaps remark, that to deduce extraordinary situations from common and simple causes, ought to be considered as great proof of genius and invention in the author.


-Prepared by Margaret Case Croskery, Ohio Northern University, July 2003