_Lives of the Cardinal de Richelieu, Count Oxenstiern, Count Olivarez,
and Cardinal Mazarin. By G. P. R. James. Republished by Carey, Lea and
Blanchard._
As a novelist, Mr. James has never, certainly, been popular—nor has
he, we think, deserved popularity. Neither do we mean to imply that
with “the few” he has been held in very lofty estimation. He has
fallen, apparently, upon that unlucky mediocrity permitted neither by
Gods nor columns. His historical novels have been of a questionable
character—neither veritable history, nor endurable romance—neither
“fish, flesh, nor gude red herring.” He has been lauded, it is true,
by a great variety of journals, and in many instances mentioned with
approbation by men whose critical opinions (could we fully ascertain
them) would be entitled to the highest consideration. It is not,
however, by the amount, so readily as by the nature or character of
such public compliments, that we can estimate their intrinsic value,
or that of the object complimented. No man speaks of James, as he
speaks, (and cannot help speaking) of Scott, of Bulwer, of D'Israeli,
and of numerous lesser minds than these—and all inferior to James, if
we harken to the body rather than to the soul {731} of the testimonies
offered hourly by the public press. The author of “Richelieu” and
“Darnley” is lauded, by a great majority of those who laud him, from
mere motives of duty, not of inclination—duty erroneously conceived.
He is looked upon as the head and representative of those novelists
who, in historical romance, attempt to blend interest with
instruction. His sentiments are found to be pure—his _morals_
unquestionable, and pointedly shown forth—his language indisputably
correct. And for all this, praise, assuredly, but then only a certain
degree of praise, should be awarded him. To be pure in his expressed
opinions is a duty; and were his language as correct as any spoken, he
would speak only as every gentleman should speak. In regard to his
historical information, were it much more accurate, and twice as
extensive as, from any visible indications, we have reason to believe
it, it should still be remembered that similar attainments are
possessed by many thousands of well-educated men of all countries, who
look upon their knowledge with no more than ordinary complacency; and
that a far, very far higher reach of erudition is within the grasp of
any general reader having access to the great libraries of Paris or
the Vatican. Something more than we have mentioned is necessary to
place our author upon a level with the best of the English
novelists—for here his admirers would desire us to place him. Had Sir
Walter Scott never existed, and Waverley never been written, we would
not, of course, award Mr. J. the merit of being the first to blend
history, even successfully, with fiction. But as an indifferent
imitator of the Scotch novelist in this respect, it is unnecessary to
speak of the author of “Richelieu” any farther. To genius of any kind,
it seems to us, that he has little pretension. In the solemn
tranquillity of his pages we seldom stumble across a novel emotion,
and if any matter of deep interest arises in the path, we are pretty
sure to find it an interest appertaining to some historical fact
equally vivid or more so in the original chronicles.
Of the volumes now before us we are enabled to speak more
favorably—yet not in a tone of high commendation. The book might more
properly be called “Notices of the Times of Richelieu,” &c. Of course,
in so small a compass, nothing like a minute account of the life and
varied intrigues of even Mazarin alone, could be expected. What is
done, however, is done with more than the author's usual ability, and
with much more than his customary spirit. In the Life of Axel, Count
Oxenstiern, there is, we believe, a great deal of information not to
be met with in the more accessible historians of Sweden.