Part 11
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.
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 ever written 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 not find a record of any other “historiographical” work to which the language of the letter is applicable.
The _Dictionary of National Biography_ credits James with _Memoirs 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.” The _Dictionary_ further 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 Cyclopædia_ follows Allibone as to dates, but very properly ignores Richmond in favor of Norfolk. The _Encyclopædia Britannica_ says that Irving encouraged him to produce the _Life of the Black Prince_ in 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 (_Richelieu_ and 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 as _Pelham_ and _Pausonias_ attempt 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 of others. 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 of _Charles O’Malley_ was the editor of the Dublin University Magazine, he wrote 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’s _Life 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 English nearly 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 his _Life of Lever_, “G. P. R. James and himself were the cynosure of all eyes”—and later at Baden. Lever dedicated to James his novel _Roland 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 the _Dublin_ is 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 the _Southern Literary Messenger_, beginning:
Good bye! they say the time is up— The “solitary horseman” leaves us, We’d like to take a “stirrup cup”, Though much indeed the parting grieves us: We’d like to hear the glasses clink Around a board where none was tipsy, And with a hearty greeting drink This toast—The Author of the Gipsey!