Text: C. F. Briggs (?), Literary, Broadway Journal (New York), January 4, 1845, vol. 1, no. 2, pp. 20-21

[page 20, column 2, continued:]

AGINCOURT, by G. P. R. James. [Republished by the Harpers.]

Tim is the title of Mr. James's last novel, or rather, it is the last one that we have seen; there may be a later one. Mr. James has published many volumes, by the help of a rapid amanuensis, and the best natured readers hat ever an author was blessed with. The books that bear his name on their title-page, exceed, in reading matter, the entire literature of the Greeks. And yet, tried by a very low standard, Mr. James cannot be called an author. If any of his admirers claim this distinction for him, we should be glad to know the beings that owe their existence to him. There are many famous authors, whose names are never seen on the title-page, of a book. Mr. James and a thousand like him, have produced many books; yet who will speak of them as authors a century hence?

We read with amazement the catalogue of Scuderi's and Calprenede's romances, and wonder where they found their readers; but what will posterity say to the catalogue of what is called the modern school of Romance, to the Jameses, and Ainsworths, and Mrs. Gores? leaving out the Mrs. Sherwoods and Charlotte Elizabeths? We took up a book a few months since, with Mr. James's name in the title-page, and I read it through, without discovering, until we reached the last chapter, that we had read out of Arrah Neil, by Mr. James, into the St. James's of Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, a part of each being bound together: the reading was so much alike, and the James and the St. James being all the time at the top of the page, that we never perceived that they were different books, by different authors. There is a class of novel readers now, as there was in the time of Crebillon, jun., who will read any thing that any body will write, provided it be in the form of a story with a thread to it. This is essential. It matters not how slender the thread maybe; their curiosity [page 21:] will hang upon it, if it will hang of itself; but a chain cable could not hold the attention of such readers, if a link were wanting. A book that is read for the sake of the story may as well be written by Professor Ingraham, or Eugene Sue, as by Fielding, or Walter Scott. As the confirmed tippler is indifferent to the quality of his drink, if it only produces inebriation. We have seen respectable looking ladies, and even men, courageous enough to read a James's novel in a steamboat cabin or a rail-road car. We knew a gentleman who read Darnley twice. He is quite as remarkable a person, in his way, as the man who read the Monnikins once. We also know a country gentleman, who lives in a gothic castle somewhere in New Jersey, who always enquires, whenever he comes to town, which is about once a fortnight, whether there is any thing new by James? The last time he asked this question, we replied, “Yes, a new title.”

To review a new novel by Mr. James would be an entire loss of time. His claims to notice were long ago determined. His position in the literary word is as well defined as though he had been dead a century. He must be a huge favourite with his own countrymen, who pay a guinea and a half apiece for his novels. His is one of “the silver springs where England drinks;” and he drinks their gold in return. With us his novels sell for a shilling sterling; but if we had to pay the home price for them, as we ought to do, his transatlantic readers Would be exceeding few. But he has his regular customers, like an old established shop, and when he gives up business, we have no doubt but that he will sell the good-will of his readers to some young beginner in the same line; we shall see an advertisement in the Times, one of these days, something after this style: “A RARE CHANCE. For sale low, the good-will of a novel-producing establishment, with a steady set of customers. A skilful amanuensis and a large book of quotations will be included in the sale. For particulars apply to G. P. R. James, Esquire, Historiographer to the Queen.”

Mr. James's style is so stretchy, and his stories are so easily drawn out, that we have often thought he must employ in some manner the universal caoutchouc in their composition. We know a gentleman, who once, for lack of better business, acted as Mr. James's amanuensis, and put upon paper some half a dozen of his romances. He says that Mr. James used to pour them out like a mountebank pulling ribbons from his mouth, and apparently with as little mental exertion. They kept coming continually, but the heap did not increase, — the two ends of his stories seemed fastened together, and were continually revolving round a pivot, producing motion, but no increase.

The first chapter in either of Mr. James's books will afford a good example of the manner in which he makes up his volumes. Agincourt opens with this wordy catalogue of the features of a cloudy night, which any young lady who is mistress of the alphabet might do as well.

“The night was black as ink.” Thisleaves nothing more to be said on the subject; it includes every shade of darkness. But terseness of description like this, would not enable Mr. James to spin out three volumes every three months, or oftener, so he goes on with his description. “Not a solitary twinkling star looked out through that wide expanse of shadow, which our great poet (who is our great poet?) called the blanket of the dark;’ clouds covered the Heaven; the moon had not risen to tinge them even with gray; and the sun had too long set to leave one faint tinge of purple upon the western sky. Trees, houses, villages, fields, and gardens, all lay in one profound obscurity, and even the course of the high road itself, required eyes well accustomed to night-traveling, to be able to distinguish it, as it wandered [column 2:] through a rich part of Hampshire, amid alternate woods and meadows.”

In the next sentence, the force of habit is described so minutely and profcundly, that it appears as if Mr. James had just discovered a new principle, which he was labouring to make perfectly plain to his readers. “Habit is more our master than we know, and often rules our external demeanour whenever the spirit is called to take council in the deep chamber within, showing upon the surface, without any effort on our part to hide our thoughts. a very different aspect from that of the mind's business at the moment.”

We continually meet with descriptions like this, which reads like a tailor's bill of particulars, but leaves no more impression on the mind than art’ invoice of merchandise.

“Clothed in the most splendid array with which he had been able to provide himself, his tight-fitting hose displaying to the highest advantage his graceful, yet powerful limbs, with the coat of black silk, spotted with flowers of gold, cut wide, but gathered into numerous plaits or folds round the collar and the waist, and confined by a rich girdle to the form, while the sleeves, fashioned to the shape of the arm, and fastened at the wrist, showed the contour of the swelling muscles; — over his shoulder he wore a short mantle of embroidered cloth, trimmed with costly fur, the sleeves of which, according to the custom of the day, were slashed down the inner side, so as to suffer the arm to be thrust out from them, while they, more for ornament than use, hung down to the bend of the knee. On his feet he wore the riding boots of the time, thrust down to the ankle; and — in accordance with a custom, then new in the courts of France and Burgundy, but which, ere long, found its way to England — his heavy sword had been laid aside, and his only arm was a rich hilted dagger, suspended by a gold ring from the clasp of his girdle. His head was covered with a small bonnet, or velvet cap, ornamented with a single long white feather, showing that he had not yet reached the knightly rank, and round it curled in large waves his glossy dark brown hair.”

Nothing more can be said about the attire of this tremendous figure, without going into the particulars of his underclothes, which we rather wonder at his not doing. But not yet tired of his clothier-like description, he immediately branches off upon the dresses of the six servants who stood ready to accompany their master to the dwelling of the Count of Charalois.

Mr. James has one very great merit; he never makes use of foreign terms, but employs only words that can be found in English dictionaries.