In a vainglorious mood I said not long ago to a well-dressed and
apparently intelligent gentleman whom I met in the house of an
accomplished lawyer in Washington City, that I had just had the
privilege of conversing with the extremely modern novelist, Mr. Henry
James. He smiled amiably and remarked airily, “Oh, the two horsemen
fellow”.
The remark was not without significance, because it betrayed the fact
that my casual acquaintance, who might well be presumed to represent
what is called “the average citizen” of this enlightened country; who
was fairly well educated; who had read enough to know of the famous
horsemen and of their habitual appearance in the opening chapter; who
assuredly had skimmed the book-notices in our wonderful newspapers; was,
after all, more distinctly impressed by the writer of sixty years ago
than by the contemporaneous author whose volumes bid fair to rival in
number those of his namesake—an author whose style defies definition and
bewilders the simple-minded searcher after a good story.
I confess that I am puzzled by these subtle writers with their involved
sentences, their clouds of verbiage, and their incomprehensible
wanderings in speculative mysteries. There is a delight about the direct
and there is often disappointment about the indirect. The true lover of
fiction revels in the directness of Dumas and of Dickens, but he usually
accepts the intricacies of the modern school because he is told that he
ought to do so or because, alone and unaided, he can discover nothing
better in the product of the day.
To my Washington friend I replied, with that offensive assumption of
superiority which marks the man familiar with his encyclopædia, that the
writer of whom he was thinking had closed his career and finished the
last chapter of his life nearly half a century ago, when Henry James was
only seventeen and had not yet dreamed of Daisy Miller or forecasted the
genesis of the two closely printed volumes of _The Golden Bowl_. I
discerned the truth, however, that the subject was not interesting and
we changed the topic of conversation.
The earlier James has not been favored by the men who compile histories
of English literature. Nicoll and Seccombe merely call him “the prolific
James”, but devote large space to many inferior writers. Garnett and
Gosse ignore him entirely. It seems to be a rule among self-constituted
critics to speak of him with indifference; I think he deserves more
respectful treatment. It may be that he has been a victim of that
merciless propensity of men to throw stones at him who has been the
subject of ridicule by those who have won popularity; when one cur
barks, the whole pack joins vigorously. As Mr. Stapleton in _Jacob
Faithful_ profoundly observes, it is “human natur”. When Macaulay damned
poor Montgomery to lasting ignominy, he deliberately consigned the
luckless poet to undeserved contempt; and Macaulay’s essay will live
while but for its caustic condemnation Montgomery would be utterly
forgotten.
The “horseman” tag has for many years attached itself to G. P. R. James
and has done much to bring him into ridicule. It is strange how such
tags preserve immortality, despite the fact that they are often unjust
and deceiving. What is printed, remains. A New York journal said
recently: “An error once made in print, it seems will never die; a
mis-statement may be corrected within the hour, but it goes on its
travels without the correction and becomes a bewildering part of written
history”. It is true also concerning a “tag”. In literature, Bret
Harte’s parodies, the _Rejected Addresses_, and the many clever things
contained in Mr. Hamilton’s amusing compilation, show how easy it is to
discover a mannerism and to attach to an author a label which will
always identify him.
Possibly the popularity of the “horseman” remark is due in some degree
to Thackeray, who began “that fatal parody,” the burlesque “Barbazure,
by G. P. R. Jeames Esq. etc.” in this wise: “It was upon one of those
balmy evenings of November which are only known in the valleys of
Languedoc and among the mountains of Alsace, that two cavaliers might
have been perceived by the naked eye threading one of the rocky and
romantic gorges that skirt the mountain land between the Marne and the
Garonne.” Our own John Phœnix in his review of the “Life of Joseph
Bowers the Elder”—I quote from the original edition, and not from the
one printed’ by the Caxton Club which omits this gem—says of one of Mr.
Bowers’s supposititious works: “The following smacks, to us, slightly of
‘Jeems.’ ‘It was on a lovely morning in the sweet spring time, when two
horsemen might have been seen slowly descending one of the gentle
acclivities that environ the picturesque valley of San Diego.’” Mr.
Edmund Gosse continues the tradition when in his _Modern English
Literature_, he tells us of the days when “the cavaliers of G. P. R.
James were riding down innumerable roads”; while Justin McCarthy in the
_History of Our Own Times_ remarks pleasantly—“Many of us can remember,
without being too much ashamed of the fact, that there were early days
when Mr. James and his cavaliers and his chivalric adventures gave
nearly as much delight as Walter Scott could have given to the youth of
a preceding generation. But Walter Scott is with us still, young and
old, and poor James is gone. His once famous solitary horseman has
ridden away into actual solitude, and the shades of night have gathered
over his heroic form”. Here we perceive a variation from the familiar
allusion. The “two horsemen” have condensed themselves into a single
rider.
While we are speaking of the horsemen, it may not be amiss to recall
what James thought of them. In 1851 he published a story called “The
Fate,” and in the sixteenth chapter he deals with them in a manner quite
amusing but also quite pathetic. He is talking about plagiarism and he
wanders into other fields. He says:
“As to repeating one’s self, it is no very great crime, perhaps, for I
never heard that robbing Peter to pay Paul was punishable under any
law or statute, and the multitude of offenders in this sense, in all
ages, and in all circumstances, if not an excuse, is a palliation,
showing the frailty of human nature, and that we are as frail as
others—but no more. The cause of this self-repetition, probably, is
not a paucity of ideas, not an infertility of fancy, not a want of
imagination or invention, but like children sent daily to draw water
from a stream, we get into the habit of dropping our buckets into the
same immeasurable depth of thought exactly at the same place; and
though it be not exactly the same water as that which we drew up the
day before it is very similar in quality and flavor, a little clearer
or a little more turbid, as the case may be.
Now this dissertation—which may be considered as an introduction or
preface to the second division of my history—has been brought about,
has had its rise, origin, source, in an anxious and careful endeavor
to avoid, if possible, introducing into this work the two solitary
horsemen—one upon a white horse—which, by one mode or another, have
found their way into probably one out of three of all the books I have
written and I need hardly tell the reader that the name of these books
is legion. They are, perhaps, too many; but, though I must die, some
of them will live—I know it, I feel it; and I must continue to write
while this spirit is in this body.
To say truth, I do not know why I should wish to get rid of my two
horsemen, especially the one on the white horse. Wouvermans always had
a white horse in all his pictures; and I do not see why I should not
put my signature, my emblem, my monogram, in my paper and ink pictures
as well as any painter of them all. I am not sure that other authors
do not do the same thing—that Lytton has not always, or very nearly, a
philosophizing libertine—Dickens, a very charming young girl, with
dear little pockets; and Lever a bold dragoon. Nevertheless, upon my
life, if I can help it, we will not have in this work the two horsemen
and the white horse; albeit, in after times—when my name is placed
with Homer and Shakespeare, or in any other more likely position—they
may arise serious and acrimonious disputes as to the real authorship
of the book, from its wanting my own peculiar and distinctive mark and
characteristic.
But here, while writing about plagiarism, I have been myself a
plagiary; and it shall not remain without acknowledgment, having
suffered somewhat in that sort myself. Here, my excellent friend,
Leigh Hunt, soul of mild goodness, honest truth, and gentle
brightness! I acknowledge that I stole from you the defensive image of
Wouverman’s white horse, which you incautiously put within my reach,
on one bright night of long, dreamy conversation, when our ideas of
many things, wide as the poles asunder, met suddenly without clashing,
or produced but a cool, quiet spark—as the white stones which children
rub together in dark corners emit a soft phosphorescent gleam, that
serves but to light their little noses.”[23]
I hold no brief for James. I cannot assert truthfully that I am
particularly well acquainted with more than four or five of his
numerous books, although I remember with delight the perusal of some
of them when I was a boy, reading for the story alone. But I am
confident that he had his merits, and that much of the abuse showered
upon him by critics has been undeserved; that he was a careful and
conscientious writer whose novels are fit to be read, and that while
he may no longer be ranked among “the best sellers”, he deserves a
high place of honor among those who have entertained, amused and
instructed their fellow men. It is only about two years ago that the
Routledges of London considered it wise to begin the new career of
their house by re-issuing in twenty-five volumes the historical
novels, and cheaper reproductions are widely circulated. In a recent
number of a New York magazine the editor says that “the fact is that
James has always had a big public of his own—the public in fact that
does _not_ consult the ‘Dictionary of National Biography’”—referring
to the disparaging article in the Dictionary about which I will have
something to say later on. There are authors who are always praised by
the critics but ignored by the proletariat of readers; there are
authors whom the critics affect to despise but who have many readers
whose judgments are not embalmed in print. James seems to belong to
the last-mentioned class. Yet few are acquainted with the man himself,
and I have thought that it might not be amiss to give a short account
of him, referring to the estimates of his character and ability by
those of his own time and also to some autograph letters of his which
are in my possession and which have not been published.
The details of his life are not very well known; it was not a stirring
or an eventful one. It was the life of a quiet, dignified and
unostentatious man of letters, unmarked by fierce controversies and
wholly devoid of domestic troubles. If his reputation has not long
survived him among the critical it is because of a law of literature
which Mr. Brander Matthews says is inexorable and universal. The man who
has the gift of story telling and nothing else, who is devoid of humor,
who does not possess the power of making character, who is a “spinner of
yarns” only, has no staying power, and “however immense his immediate
popularity may be, he sinks into oblivion almost as soon as he ceases to
produce”.[24] James seems to have had only in a small degree “the power
of making character”, and although he had a sense of humor, it manifests
itself in his novels only in a mildly unobtrusive way.
George Payne Rainsford James was born in George Street, Hanover Square,
London, on August 9th, 1799. His father was a physician who had seen
service in the navy and was in America during the Revolution, serving in
Benedict Arnold’s descent on Connecticut. The son of the novelist, who
is still living in Wisconsin, tells me that his grandfather (as he
hinted) shot a man with his own hands to stop the atrocities of the
siege in which Ledyard fell. The physician was also in the vessel which
brought Rodney the news of De Grasse and enabled him to win the great
naval victory which assisted England to make peace creditably. His
paternal grandfather was Dr. Robert James, whose “powders” for curing
fevers enjoyed great celebrity at one time,[25] but his chief title to
fame is that he was admired by Samuel Johnson who said of him, “no man
brings more mind to his profession.”[26] I regret that there is a cruel
insinuation by the great personage which implies that Doctor Robert was
not sober for twenty years, but there is some doubt whether Johnson was
really referring to James.[27] Those were days of free indulgence, and
much may be pardoned; at all events, no one could ever accuse the
grandson of such an offence.
Young George attended the school of the Reverend William Carmalt at
Putney, but he was not fortunate enough to have the advantage of a
university education, which despite the sneers of those who never
attended a university, is an important element in the life of any man
who devotes himself to literature. It is a great corrective, and those
who regard the subject from a point of view wholly utilitarian do not
comprehend in the least degree what is meant by it. James soon developed
a fondness for the study of languages, not only what are called “the
classics,” but of Persian and Arabic although he says he “sadly failed
in mastering Arabic.” This taste of his may account in part for his
extensive vocabulary, and it may be that his diffuseness, so much
criticised, was due in some degree to his ready command of an unusual
number of words. In his younger days, he studied medicine, as might have
been expected, but his inclination was in a different direction. He
wanted to go into the navy, but says Mr. C. L. James, “his father, who
had a sailor’s experience and manners, said, ‘you may go into the army
if you like—it’s the life of a dog; but the navy is the life of a d——d
dog, and you shan’t try it.’”
He did accordingly go into the army for a short time during the “One
Hundred Days,” and was wounded in one of the slight actions which
followed Waterloo; but he never rose beyond the rank of lieutenant. His
son writes: “The British and Prussian forces were disposed all along the
frontier to guard every point, and Wellington, with whom my father was
acquainted, did not like the arrangement—it was Blucher’s. When Napoleon
crossed the Sambre at Charlevoi, the Duke saw his purpose of taking
Quatre Bras, between the English and Prussians, so he sent word to all
his own detachments to fall in, ‘running as to a fire.’*** My father’s
company was among those too late for the great battle. I have heard him
tell how the cuirassiers lay piled up, men and horses, to the tops of
lofty hedges.*** My father also said that he saw a dead cuirassier
behind our lines, showing there must have been a time when they actually
pierced the allied centre. When he was on the field they were bringing
in French prisoners, who would have been massacred by the Prussians but
that English soldiers guarded them. Many years afterwards the Duke of
Wellington said to my father, in his abrupt way, ‘You were at Waterloo,
I think?’ ‘No,’ he replied ‘I am sorry to say.’ ‘Why sorry to say,’
rejoined Wellington, ‘if you had been there, you might not have been
here.’ Another of his anecdotes about the Duke is that just after
Waterloo, where it is well known that a great part of the allied army
was wholly routed, some officers were talking about who ‘ran’, when
Wellington, who had been quietly listening to these unhopeful
personalities, cut in thus: ‘Run! who wouldn’t have run under a fire
like that? I am sure I should—if I had known any place to run to.’”
One incident in his army life is of interest. Some thirty years ago Mr.
Maunsell B. Field, a gentleman whose title to fame is somewhat dubious,
published a book called “Memories of Many Men.” He knew James well, and
collaborated with him in one of his books—“Adrian, or the Clouds of the
Mind.” Mr. Field says, after mentioning an alleged fact which is not a
fact, viz: that James was taken prisoner before the battle of Waterloo
and detained until after the battle, “The incident which occurred during
his confinement there cast a gloom upon the rest of his life. For some
cause which he never explained to me, he became engaged in a duel with a
French officer. He escaped unhurt himself, but wounded his adversary who
died, after lingering for months. I have still in my possession the
old-fashioned pistols with which this duel was fought, which my deceased
friend presented to me at the time of our early acquaintance.”[28]
Field’s story is made up in a ridiculously inaccurate way. James was not
captured before Waterloo, or after it, for that matter. During his later
travels he became involved in a difficulty with a French officer and
found himself compelled, according to the absurd practice of the time,
to fight a duel with him. The Frenchman was not killed, but only wounded
in the arm, and the duel was fought with swords, not with pistols! The
truth is, that after the sword-duel, James was challenged to fight again
with pistols. Mr. C. L. James writes me thus: “It made him (G. P. R.
James) very angry; and, being a good shot then, he felt confident of the
result if he should accept but said he would put the point of honor to
the French officer’s regiment. They replied by inviting him to dine at
the mess. On receiving this message, he took up his pistols which were
ready, loaded, saying ‘then we shall have no use for these,’ and at that
moment one of them went off, sending the bullet through the floor close
to his foot, though he felt sure they were not cocked.” Mr. Field
undoubtedly meant to tell the truth, but his reminiscences cannot be
relied upon in regard to James or to any one else.
As a lad of seventeen he wrote a number of sketches, afterwards
published under the title of “A String of Pearls,” which were rather
free translations from the oriental tales he had studied so fondly.[29]
He travelled extensively for those times, visiting France and Spain soon
after the abdication of Napoleon. These early travels and adventures
supplied him with the idea of _Morley Ernstein_. He became acquainted
with Cuvier and other men of eminence, and it is gratifying to Americans
to know that Washington Irving liked him and gave him encouragement. It
has been said that his first work was the _Life of Edward the Black
Prince_, said to have been produced in 1822, but one of my letters,
written in 1835, indicates that it was not produced earlier than 1836.
The son thinks it must have been written before 1830. He had a
disposition to enter political life, but he abandoned the idea in 1827.
He was a mild Tory. His ambition was in the direction of a diplomatic
career. His father had some influence with Lord Liverpool, who offered
him the post of Secretary to an Embassy to China,—a temporary
appointment only, and one which promised him no preferment. It was
declined, and a week later Lord Liverpool died suddenly.
In 1828 he married the daughter of Honoratus Leigh Thomas, an eminent
physician of that day. She survived her husband exactly thirty-one
years, dying at Eau Claire, Wisconsin, on June 9th, 1891. The assertion
made in some accounts of him that James married in the United States is
wholly untrue. After the marriage, they lived in France, Italy and
Scotland.
In 1825 he wrote his first novel, _Richelieu_, which was not published
until 1829. Regarded by many as the best of his novels, it is an
excellent example of his strength and of his weakness. It deals with
elementary emotions, and makes but slight attempts to portray character
except in the simplest and most obvious way. Although it bears the name
of the great Cardinal, it might as well have been called “Louis XIII”,
or “Chavigni,” or “The Count de Blenau”, for Richelieu himself appears
but seldom on the scene and is not the hero or the central figure. The
narrative runs briskly on, plentifully seasoned with deeds of daring and
hairbreadth escapes, culminating in the familiar climax of the almost
miraculous arrival of a pardon when the hero has bared his neck to
receive the axe of the executioner. It is evident from the outset that
the nobleman whose fortunes are the subject of the story and the
conventional lady of his love will marry and “be happy ever after.” The
abundant historical and antiquarian padding is admirably devised and
executed, well placed and never tiresome. The tale is skilfully
constructed and if it teaches any lesson, it is that of courage, truth,
honor and loyalty. Our modern “historical novels” are in many respects
distinctly inferior to _Richelieu_. Singularly enough, he did not
include it in the revised edition of his Works.
After reading _Richelieu_, Sir Walter Scott advised him to adopt
literature as a profession, and as he imitated Scott, the value of the
advice is not to be underestimated. As Mr. Field’s story goes, James had
kept the manuscript concealed from his father, but he managed to get an
introduction to Scott, who promised to give him his opinion. After six
months no news had come from Scotland. James was riding one day in Bond
Street, when, his horse shying, his carriage was pressed against
another. The occupant of the other carriage was Scott, and he invited
James to call upon him. To his surprise and delight, Scott praised the
book highly, and wrote his opinion, which enabled the lucky author to
find a publisher, to whom he sold the copyright for a song. In his
General Preface to the Works (1844–1849) James himself gives a very
different account of the matter. He says that a friend showed Sir Walter
one volume of a romance written long before, and he himself sent a
letter to Scott asking advice in regard to persevering in a literary
career. Some months passed, and James “felt somewhat mortified and a
good deal grieved” at receiving no response, but one day, on returning
from the country to London, he found a packet on his table containing
the volume and a note. “The opinion expressed in that note” adds James
“was more favourable than I had ever expected, and certainly more
favourable than I deserved; for Sir Walter was one of the most lenient
of critics, especially to the young. However, it told me to persevere,
and I did so.”[30] Irving and Scott united in encouraging him to produce
his next novel, _Darnley_, with another great Cardinal as a principal
character. _Darnley_ was sketched and drafted at Montreuil-sur-Mer in
December, 1828, and was completed in a few months. It is still popular
with readers of fiction and has much of the charm which pervades its
predecessor. James lived for a time at Evreux, and _De l’Orme_, written
there in 1829, appeared in 1830. _Philip Augustus_ was produced in less
than seven weeks, and was published in 1831. Under William IV he was
appointed Historiographer Royal, and published several pamphlets
officially.[31] In 1842 he lived at Walmer, and was frequently a guest
of the Duke of Wellington at Walmer Castle—a fact jocosely mentioned in
the _Life of Charles Lever_, where it is recorded that Lever said to
McGlashan that he must beware of James, who had become dangerous from
irritation, but suggested that as James had been dining twice a week
with the Duke, “he had eaten himself into a more than ordinary bilious
temper.”[32] In 1845 he went to Germany, partly for recreation and
partly to obtain information to be used in the _History of Richard Cœur
de Lion_, upon which he was then engaged. The illness of his children
detained him for a year; and at Karlsruhe and Baden-Baden he wrote
_Heidelberg_ and the _Castle of Ehrenstein_. On his return to England he
lived for some time near Farnham, Surrey, where he wrote voluminously.
He was accustomed to rise at five in the morning, to write with his own
hand until nine, and later in the day to dictate to an amanuensis,
walking to and fro meanwhile.
Towards 1850 he decided to leave England and go to America. His original
intention was to settle in Canada. He had met with severe pecuniary
reverses. The collected edition of his works was illustrated with steel
engravings, but after a few volumes had appeared the publisher failed.
The engraver sued James as a partner in the enterprise, and poor James
had to pay several thousand pounds. In this plight he sought his friend,
the Duke of Northumberland, who endeavored to dissuade him from leaving
England and offered him a signed check, with the amount left blank,
asking him to accept it and fill the blank himself. To his credit, James
declined the generous gift.[33]
When he reached New York in July, 1850, he took lodgings in the old New
York Hotel. He had many letters of introduction, including one to Horace
Greeley, who, he said, had “the head of a Socrates and the face of a
baby.” Hotel life proving unsatisfactory, he rented Charles Astor
Bristed’s house at Hell Gate, opposite Astoria. Of his many troubles in
getting into his new home, he wrote an amusing account in verse which
Mr. Field prints.[34] Field tells a story of a wealthy man of New York
who was introduced to James, and remarked that he was a great admirer of
the works, that he believed he had read all that were published, and
that there was one “which he vastly preferred to all the others.” “And
which is that?” asked James. “The Last Days of Pompeii,” was the answer.
“That is Bulwer’s, not mine,” replied the mortified novelist. He also
tells of a lady who found in a village library what she supposed to be a
copy of an English edition of one of James’s novels in two volumes. She
read them with much enjoyment, and did not discover until she had
finished them, that she had been reading the first volume of one and the
second volume of another. With admirable tact and discretion Field told
this to James, and says “he winced under it.”
In 1851 he hired a furnished house at Stockbridge, Massachusetts, and
later he bought property there, making some laudable efforts at farming,
Mr. Field says:
“In the meantime he was also industriously pegging away at
book-making, although to the casual observer he appeared to be the
least occupied man in the place. He never did any literary work after
eleven o’clock A. M. until evening. He was not accustomed to put his
own hand to paper, when composing, but always employed an amanuensis.
At this time he had in his service in that capacity the brother of an
Irish baronet, who spoke and wrote English, French, German and
Italian, and whom I had procured for him at the modest stipend of five
dollars a week. When James was dictating, he always kept a paper of
snuff upon the table on which his secretary wrote, and he would stride
up and down the room, stopping every few minutes for a fresh supply of
the titillating powder. He never looked at the manuscript, or made any
corrections except upon proof-sheets.”
During that summer James and Field produced _Adrian_, finishing it in
five weeks. Notwithstanding Field’s assertion that “it was very kindly
received by the critics,” it does not appear to have enjoyed any marked
success.
In 1852 he was appointed British Consul at Norfolk, Virginia. He was not
contented there, as we may see from his letters; but he received many
kindnesses, and on the last night he spent in the United States he spoke
to Field of the Virginians, as “a warm hearted people.” His health
suffered and his spirits also; the yellow fever raged in the city and
caused him great trouble and anxiety. While in the United States he
wrote _Ticonderoga_, _The Old Dominion_, and other novels; his fertile
pen was always busy. His latest work was _The Cavalier_, published in
1859. In 1856 the Consulate was removed to Richmond. At his earnest
request he was transferred from Virginia in September, 1858, and was
appointed Consul General at Venice, where it was hoped that his health
would improve. The war between France and Austria soon broke out, his
labors and anxieties were increased and in April, 1860, his illness
became serious. On June 9, 1860, he died of an apoplectic stroke, “an
utter break up of mind preceding the end” as Lever wrote. He was buried
in Venice—some accounts say in the Lido cemetery, but the monument,
erected by the English residents in Venice, is in the Protestant portion
of the cemetery of St. Michele, which is on an island not far from the
Lido. Laurence Hutton, in his _Literary Landmarks of Venice_, refers to
a vague tradition among the older alien residents that he was buried in
the Lido, where, Hutton says, there are a few very ancient stones and
monuments marking the graves of foreign visitors to Venice, none of them
seeming to be of a later date than the middle of the eighteenth century.
But Sir Francis Vincent, the last British Ambassador to the Venetian
Republic, is buried there. Mr. Hutton adds that the stone in St. Michele
is “a tablet blackened by time, broken and hardly decipherable”; but
when I saw it in the summer of 1906 it was only slightly discolored, and
not broken at all. It showed no evidence of restoration, and was
blackened only as much as much as might be expected of a stone
forty-five years old in a climate like that of Venice. The epitaph,
written by Walter Savage Landor, is absolutely distinct and easily read.
“George Payne Rainford James.
British Consul General in the Adriatic.
Died in Venice, on the 9th day of June, 1860.
His merits as a writer are known wherever the English language is, and
as a man they rest on the hearts of many.
A few friends have erected this humble and perishable monument.”
Hutton attempts to give the epitaph in full but makes an unaccountable
error in substituting “heads” for “hearts.” It is another illustration
of the ill will of the fates that even on his tombstone his name should
be inscribed incorrectly. “_Rainford_” is doubtless the mistake of the
Italian who prepared the monument.[35]
Mr. J. A. Hamilton, in the _Dictionary of National Biography_, says: “An
epitaph, in terms of somewhat extravagant eulogy, was written by Walter
Savage Landor.” The epitaph, which I copied word for word, scarcely
deserves Mr. Hamilton’s censure. Surely there is nothing extravagant
about it. I regret that in such a valuable work as the _Dictionary_, the
account of James is so slight, perfunctory, and in many respects
inaccurate. It could have been made much better, and it is in marked
contrast with most of the biographical sketches included in that
admirable compendium.
Mr. Hamilton sums up in a careless and indifferent way the literary
career of James. “Flimsy and melodramatic as James’s romances are, they
were highly popular. The historical setting is for the most part
laboriously accurate, and though the characters are without life, the
moral tone is irreproachable; there is a pleasant spice of adventure
about the plots, and the style is clear and correct. The writer’s
grandiloquence and artificiality are cleverly parodied by Thackeray in
‘Barbazure, by G. P. R. Jeames, Esq., &c.,’ in ‘Novels by Eminent
Hands,’ and the conventional sameness of the opening of his novels, ‘so
admirable for terseness,’ is effectively burlesqued in ‘The Book of
Snobs,’ chap. ii. and xvi.” It is the old story: Thackeray made fun of
him, and so—away with him! Yet there was a time when everybody read
James and few read Thackeray. I venture to assert that the romances are
neither flimsy nor melodramatic, unless Scott’s romances are flimsy and
melodramatic. I find no grandiloquence in them.
Probably the best and most authoritative sketch of his life is contained
in the preface which he wrote for the collected edition of his novels,
published, in twenty-one volumes, in 1844–1849. Of course this includes
no account of the last ten years of his career. The number of volumes he
gave to the world was enormous, as may be seen from the list of his
works compiled from the _Dictionary_ and from Allibone’s laboriously
minute record.[36] They tell of his untiring industry; evidently he
loved to write for the sake of writing. His books brought him a goodly
income, but although he seems to have had a small fortune at one time,
he was generally poor; careless about his expenditure; ever ready and
willing to give aid to those who needed it, particularly to his literary
brethren; a noble, honest Christian gentleman, devoid of selfishness; a
good husband and father, simple and direct in his ways, charitable,
open-hearted, deserving of the esteem and affection of all who knew him.
It was said of him by a writer who deplored “the fatal facility” of the
novels, that “there is a soul of true goodness in them—no maudlin
affectation of virtue, but a manly rectitude of aim which they derive
directly from the heart of the writer. His enthusiastic nature is
visibly impressed upon his productions. They are full of his own frank
and generous impulses—impulses so honorable to him in private life. Out
of his books, there is no man more sincerely beloved. Had he not even
been a distinguished author, his active sympathy in the cause of letters
would have secured to him the attachment and respect of his
contemporaries.”
His activity was by no means limited to the field of prose fiction. In
poetry, he produced _The Ruined City_ in 1828; _Blanche of Navarre_, a
five act play, in 1839, and _Camaralzaman_, a “fairy drama” in three
acts, in 1848. My “first edition” of _Blanche of Navarre_, a pamphlet of
ninety-eight pages, with a dedication to Talfourd,—until it came into my
hands. After an existence of sixty-six years, unvexed by the
paper-knife, and in that “unopened” condition so dear to the heart of a
collector—does not disclose any good reason for its creation. The finale
of Act III is an example of its “lofty poetic tone”—
“DON JOHN (_pointing to the gallery_).
We have spectators there! A lady points!
Let us go succour her!
DON FERDINAND (_stopping him_).
Nay, I beseech!
Most likely ’tis my sister!—Foolish child!
She has maids there enow,—Lo, they are gone!
We’ll close the night with wine.
[_The drop scene descends to dumb-show_].”
So we might suppose. The hospitable suggestion of Don Ferdinand has a
flavor of reckless rioting about it which brings to mind the one time
favorite amusement of a Tammany Hall leader—“opening wine.”
It is only fair to let him tell his own story about his literary
fecundity. He says:
“Before I close my present task, I may be permitted to say a few words
in regard to the observations which are uniformly made upon every
author who writes rapidly and often. I will not repeat the frequently
noticed fact, that the best writers have generally been the most
voluminous; for I must contend that neither the number of an author’s
works, nor the rapidity with which they are produced, affords any
criterion whatsoever by which to judge of their merit. They may be
numerous and excellent, like those of Voltaire, Scott, Dryden, Vega,
Boccacio and others; they may be rapidly written, and yet accurate,
like the great work of Fénélon, and they may be quite the reverse.***
I may mention, in my own case, a few circumstances which may account
for the number and rapidity of my works. In the first place, all the
materials for the tales I have written, and for many more than I ever
shall write, were collected long before this idea of entering upon a
literary career ever crossed my mind. In the next place, I am an early
riser, and any one who has that habit must know that it is a grand
secret for getting through twice as much as lazier men can perform.
Again, I write and read during some portion of every day, except when
I am travelling, and even then if possible. I need not point out, that
regular application in literary, as well as all other kinds of labour,
will effect results which no desultory efforts, however energetic, can
obtain. Then, again, the habit of dictating instead of writing with my
own hand, which I first attempted at the suggestion of Sir Walter
Scott, relieves me of the manual labour which many authors have to
undergo, leaves the mind clear and free to act, and affords facilities
inconceivable to those who have not tried, or, having tried, have not
been able to attain it.”[37]
I am not convinced that the custom of dictating is one which should be
observed by an author who aims at the highest excellence.
In the accounts of his life and his work there are many discrepancies
and contradictions. For example Mr. Allibone—who is not altogether
trustworthy in details—tells us that his first book was _A Life of
Edward the Black Prince_, published in 1822; but the _Dictionary of
National Biography_ ascribes that publication to the year 1836, and the
_Dictionary_ is undoubtedly right, for he said in 1835 “The _Black
Prince_ comes on but slowly,”[38] The _Dictionary_ says that as
“historiographer royal”—a sonorous title which must have afforded great
pleasure to its bearer—he published in 1839 a _History of the United
States Boundary Question_, but Mr. Allibone insists that it was not his
production. I have an autograph letter of James which, I think, warrants
the belief that Allibone is wrong. The letter is a good example of his
serious epistolary style.
“FAIR OAK LODGE, PETERSFIELD
HANTS, 4th November, 1837.