GEORGE PAYNE RAINSFORD JAMES

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 ofDickens, 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 ofThe 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 inJacob Faithfulprofoundly 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 preserveimmortality, 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, theRejected 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 hisModern 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 theHistory of Our Own Timesremarks 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 asan 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, orproduced 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 doesnotconsult 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 theproletariat 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 sonof 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 Persianand 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 myfather, 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 wasnot 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 ofMorley Ernstein. He became acquainted with Cuvier and other men of eminence, and it is gratifying toAmericans to know that Washington Irving liked him and gave him encouragement. It has been said that his first work was theLife 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 hairbreadthescapes, 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 toRichelieu. Singularly enough, he did not include it in the revised edition of his Works.

After readingRichelieu, 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.Darnleywas 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, andDe l’Orme, written there in 1829, appeared in 1830.Philip Augustuswas 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 theLife 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 beused in theHistory 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 wroteHeidelbergand theCastle 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 versewhich 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 upand 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 producedAdrian, 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 wroteTiconderoga,The Old Dominion, and other novels; his fertile pen was always busy. His latest work wasThe 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 hisLiterary Landmarks of Venice, refers toa 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 theDictionary 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 theDictionary, 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 noaccount 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 theDictionaryand 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 producedThe Ruined Cityin 1828;Blanche of Navarre, a five act play, in 1839, andCamaralzaman, a “fairy drama” in three acts, in 1848. My “first edition” ofBlanche of Navarre, a pamphlet of ninety-eight pages, with a dedication toTalfourd,—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].”

“Don John(pointing to the gallery).

We have spectators there! A lady points!Let us go succour her!

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.

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 accountfor 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 wasA Life of Edward the Black Prince, published in 1822; but theDictionary of National Biographyascribes that publication to the year 1836, and theDictionaryis undoubtedly right, for he said in 1835 “TheBlack Princecomes on but slowly,”[38]TheDictionarysays that as “historiographer royal”—a sonorous title which must have afforded great pleasure to its bearer—he published in1839 aHistory 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, PetersfieldHants, 4th November, 1837.

“Fair Oak Lodge, Petersfield

Hants, 4th November, 1837.

My Lord:—

A few months previous to the death of his late Majesty, he was pleased to appoint me Historiographer in ordinary for England into which office I was duly sworn. On the accession of Her Majesty our present Queen, although I was informed that the office did not necessarily lapse on the death of the monarch who conferred it, I applied to Her Majesty through her Lord Chamberlain for her gracious confirmation of the honor her Royal Uncle had conferred upon me. Many months have now elapsed even since Lord Conyngham did me the honor of writing to inform me that the time had not then arrived for Her Majesty to take into consideration that class of offices and I am induced in consequence to apply directly to your Lordship as I understand that your department of the government embraces such matters. I should have waited longer ere I thus intruded upon your valuable time but that I am about to publish a new Historical work of some importance in the title to which must appear whether I am or am not still Historiographer. If I am to understand by the silence which has been maintained upon the subject that it is Her Majesty’s determination to deprive me of the office which her royal uncle conferred I must bow to her gracious pleasure and neither my station in society, my fortune, or my views of what is right require or permit me to say one word to alter such a resolution. Should that determination however not have been formed allow me to submit to your Lordship that to dismiss me from a post to which I was so lately appointed is to cast a stigma of which I am not deserving. If I have everwritten anything that is calculated to injure society; if I have ever debased my pen to pander to bad appetites of any kind; if I have ever failed to dedicate its efforts to the promotion of truth, virtue, and honor, not only let the dismissal be made public but the cause of that stigma be assigned. But if on the contrary to have done my best, and that perhaps with more reputation than my writings merit, to promote all that is good and noble; if to have bestowed vast labour, anxious research, valuable time, and many hundreds of pounds for which I can hope no return on such works as the History of Charlemagne, the History of Edward the Black Prince, the History of Chivalry, and my letters to Lord Brougham on the system of Education in the higher German States—if these circumstances afford any claim to honor or distinction, I think in my case they may stand in the way of an act which I cannot yet make up my mind to believe that Her Majesty’s present ministers would advise. I have given up the expectation indeed that a fair share of honors and distinctions—or in fact any share at all—should be bestowed upon literary men in this country, even when a high education, upright conduct, and a fortune not ill employed combine with literary reputation; but I still trust that that which has been given will not be taken away.

I have now to apologize, my Lord—and I feel that an apology is very necessary—for addressing this letter to your private house; but your kindness and courtesy when, as a result of some communications between my friend Sir David Brewster and myself, I addressed you on the state of literature in England have encouraged me to trespass upon you in some manner.

I have the honor to be, my Lord, your Lordship’s most obedient servant

G. P. R. James.”

I have not been able to discover what effect this letter had, but it is evident that the ‘Historical work’ was the pamphlet on the Boundary Question as I do notfind a record of any other “historiographical” work to which the language of the letter is applicable.

TheDictionary of National Biographycredits James withMemoirs of Celebrated Women(three volumes, 1837), but Allibone says that he had no share in it, further than writing a preface or “something of that kind.” TheDictionaryfurther informs us that “about 1850 he was appointed British Consul for Massachusetts”—an impossible office—and that he was transferred to Norfolk, Virginia, in 1852, becoming Consul General at Venice in 1856. Allibone makes him Consul at Richmond, Virginia, in 1852 and Consul General at Venice in September, 1858. His friend Hall places him at Norfolk in 1852 and in Venice in 1859.Appleton’s Cyclopædiafollows Allibone as to dates, but very properly ignores Richmond in favor of Norfolk. TheEncyclopædia Britannicasays that Irving encouraged him to produce theLife of the Black Princein 1822 (an evident error), sends him as “Consul to Richmond” in 1852 and transfers him to Venice in September, 1858. The truth is that he went to Norfolk in 1852, to Richmond in 1856, and to Venice in 1858. As we have seen, even the place of his interment is not without uncertainty. These variances in regard to the facts of his life are due to the comparative neglect which has befallen his memory. Perhaps they are not of much importance. Although he had numerous friends and acquaintances, none of them, except Mr. S. C. Hall and Maunsell B. Field, left anything approaching an account of his life, and even Mr. Hall’s reminiscences are meagre and cursory, while Mr. Field’s are largely apocryphal.

He surely possessed the art of making friends. Before his marriage he knew not only Scott and Irving,but Byron, Leigh Hunt, and Walter Savage Landor, his friendship with Hunt and Landor continuing to the end of his life. Probably he never saw Shelley, but he admired greatly the writings of that radical enthusiast. He knew Thackeray, but did not like him; perhaps the parody galled him. He detested the brilliant, showy, shallow Count D’Orsay. His son says that he never heard his father speak of Dickens as if they had met.[39]“He fully acknowledged the power and versatility of Dickens’s works, but there was something in them which did not please him. He had detected, if it is there—suspected, if it is not—the essential vulgarity which this master of pathos and humor is said to have shown those who came in personal contact with him.” He had some acquaintance with Bulwer Lytton. “It is odd” remarks the younger James “but his tone towards this eminent author, who at some points (Richelieuand the historic novels) approached near enough his own line for rivalry, was rather one of compassion. He knew the personal and domestic sorrows of one whom unfriendly critics accused of soulless dandyism; and he seemed to have a sort of friendly feeling for that partially unsuccessful ambition which made the author of books as unlike asPelhamandPausoniasattempt so many things without reaching the highest rank in any.” The Duke of Northumberland, the Duke of Wellington, Charles Lever, Thomas Campbell, and Allan Cunningham, were also friends. In America, he was known and well received by President Pierce, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Charles Sumner, Farragut, Barron, Henry A. Wise, Roger A. Pryor, John Tyler, Winder, General Scott, Edward Everett, Marcy, Caleb Cushing and a host ofothers. His gentle, modest nature, his cultivated taste, and his frank, pleasant ways seem to have attracted all who came within the circle of his friendship. He had much conversation with Marcy. Each had some idea of sounding the other diplomatically; both took snuff and neither proposed to be sounded. When James asked Marcy something which the latter did not choose to answer, Marcy would ask him for a pinch of snuff, and he readily perceived that this evasion was as good for two as for one.

The late Donald G. Mitchell speaks of him as “an excellent, industrious man, who drove his trade of novel-making—as our engineers drive wells—with steam, and pistons, and borings, and everlasting clatter”, adding that “what he might have done, with a modern typewriter at command, it is painful to imagine. But he gives us the best account I have seen of the personal appearance of James.

“I caught sight of this great necromancer of ‘miniver furs,’ and mantua-making chivalry—in youngish days, in the city of New York—where he was making a little over-ocean escape from the multitudinous work that flowed from him at home; a well-preserved man, of scarce fifty years, stout, erect, gray-haired, and with countenance blooming with mild uses of mild English ale—kindly, unctuous—showing no signs of deep thoughtfulness or of harassing toil. I looked him over, in boyish way, for traces of the court splendor I had gazed upon, under his ministrations, but saw none; nor anything of the ‘manly beauty of features, rendered scarcely less by a deep scar upon the forehead’, nor ‘of the gray cloth doublets slashed with purple;’ a stanch honest, amiable, well-dressed Englishman—that was all.”[40]

Mr. Mitchell surely did not expect to see Mr. James attired in armor, with a scarred face, because he wrote of armed knights, and his remarks certainly appear to be boyish in the extreme. But he atones for them by saying:

“And yet, what delights he had conjured for us! Shall we be ashamed to name them, or to confess it all? Shall the modern show of new flowerets of fiction, and of lilies—forced to the front in January—make us forget utterly the old cinnamon roses, and the homely but fragrant pinks, which once regaled and delighted us, in the April and May of our age?”

Mr. Field says of him: “If he was sometimes a tedious writer, he was always the best story-teller that I ever listened to. He had known almost everybody in his own country, and he never forgot anything. The literary anecdotes alone which I have heard him relate would suffice to fill an ordinary volume. He was a big hearted man, too—tender, merciful, and full of religious sentiment; a good husband, a devoted father, and a fast friend.” Such is the testimony of all his acquaintances who have left any record of their impressions.

It is not my purpose to present any critical study of James or of his works, but only to submit a few of his unpublished letters, in which his easy grace of style and his frank and simple nature are manifest; to give some of the contemporary estimates of him; and to recall to the minds of readers of our own day a literary personality which should not be entirely forgotten.

Among the good friends of James of whom I have spoken was that other novelist, almost as prolific in production, but better remembered by modern readers—Charles Lever. When the author ofCharles O’Malleywas the editor of the Dublin University Magazine, hewrote to a certain Reverend Edward Johnson, now wholly lost to fame, requesting him to contribute to the magazine and inviting him to visit the editor; but by mistake he addressed the letter to James. “Though he liked the man” says Mr. Fitzpatrick, “he rather pooh-poohed the stereotyped ‘two cavaliers’ of G. P. R. James, who of a fine autumnal day might be seen, etc.”[41]Lever was too kind-hearted to explain the error, and James not only contributed to the magazine but visited Lever at Templeogue. The story “De Lunatico Inquirendo” was supposed to have been written by Lever, who wrote only the preface. “Arrah Neil” was published in the Magazine, a work which has peculiar merit and one character, Captain Barecolt, who is among James’s best people. It is said that James abused McGlashan for having “emasculated his jokes”. “Where be they? as we used to say in the Catechism” was Lever’s comment. One Major Dwyer, referred to in Fitzpatrick’sLife of Lever, says: “Lever would sometimes say that he wanted powder for his magazine. ‘It is doubtful whether James’s contributions’ he said, ‘were James’s powders at all, or merely that inferior substitute which the Pharmacopœia condemns.’” Chamber’s Cyclopædia stated, twenty years before the death of James, that he was in the habit of dictating to minor scribes his thick-coming fancies. Mr. R. H. Horne would have it that he always dictated his novels, but that was a very exaggerated statement. He dictated only at intervals. Major Dwyer tells of a novel composed by James at Baden, that “it was penned by an English artist who resided at Lichtenthal, and also spoke the purest South Devonian, and moreover wrote Englishnearly as he pronounced it. James’s flowery language thus rendered, was highly amusing; I had an opportunity of reading some pages of copy.”

In spite of his disparaging remarks, Lever was attached to the man himself, and we find the two romance writers together in 1845, at Karlsruhe—where, as Mr. Downey says in hisLife of Lever, “G. P. R. James and himself were the cynosure of all eyes”—and later at Baden. Lever dedicated to James his novelRoland Cashel, in 1849—“a Roland for your Oliver, or rather for your Stepmother,” said Lever, for James had dedicated to him the novel with that title in 1846. Soon afterwards, however, they became separated, as James went to the United States where he remained about eight years. One incident connected with theDublinis worthy of remembrance. In Volume XXVII of the Magazine (1846) appeared some verses beginning “A cloud is on the western sky.” They were said to be “Lines by G. P. R. James” and were prefaced by a note: ‘My dear L——, I send you the song you wished to have. The Americans totally forgot, when they so insolently calculated upon aid from Ireland in a war with England, that their own apple is rotten at the core. A nation with five or six million slaves who would go to war with an equally strong nation with no slaves is a mad people. Yours, G. P. R. James.’ ‘The Cloud,’ (amongst other things not intended to be pleasant to Americans) called upon the dusky millions to ‘shout,’ and the author of the ‘Lines’ declared that Britain was ready to “draw the sword in the sacred cause of liberty.” It was Lever’s joke. Poor James had never heard of the poem until years later, in 1853, an attempt was made to drive him out of Norfolk, Virginia, because of it. “God forgive me” said Lever, “it was my doing.” Lever declared that he had no more notion of James’s ‘powder’exciting a national animosity than that Holloway’s Ointment could absorb a Swiss glacier.[42]The son says that during the first winter they spent in Norfolk there were no less than eight fires in the house, or in other parts of the block, which James attributed to deliberate attempts to burn him out on account of his supposed abolitionist views.

Lever was Consul at Spezzia when James was in Venice, and they renewed their old intimacy. The younger James says that Lever was a very eccentric genius—a thorough specimen of the wild Irishman. Among his traits was chronic impecuniosity. Another was that he and all his family delighted in out-door life and could do everything athletic. “When he was at Venice he told us he was threatened with a visit from a British war vessel, which it would be his duty to receive in state, and (of course) he had no boat or other means of doing so with proper pomp. ‘But,’ he said, ‘we can take the British flag in our mouth and swim out to meet her, singing Rule Britannia.’”

Notwithstanding the manifestations of hostility by the good people of Norfolk, it may be remembered that when James was transferred to Venice, the Virginian poet, John R. Thompson, addressed to him some farewell verses, published in theSouthern Literary Messenger, beginning:

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