Celebrating John Metcalf at 85

This past Saturday, I joined a pubfull of people – yes, a pubfull – in downtown Ottawa to celebrate John Metcalf's 85th birthday. It was a glorious event with David O'Meara serving as host and Biblioasis publisher Dan Wells as MC. The fête began with Lisa Alward reading from 'Cocktail,' the title story of her newly published debut collection. Mark Anthony Jarman followed with 'Burn Man on a Texas Porch' from Burn Man: Selected Stories, also newly published. We were then treated to two passages from 'A Pearl of Great Price,' a new story by the man himself.

'Happy Birthday' was sung. There was cake!

What with Covid and geography, it had been some time since I'd last seen John Metcalf. I brought The Museum at the End of the World (2016) and The Worst Truth (2022) for him to sign. The latter is a 61-page review of David Staines' A History of Canadian Fiction, a book I myself had read for the Dorchester Review. 'What Is A Canadian Fiction?', the title of my much shorter review is a nod to John's What Is A Canadian Literature (1988).

We exchanged observations and opinions as members of a very small number who had actually read Prof Staines' latest.

At $126.95, I don't expect I'll meet another. 

The Worst Truth: Regarding A History of Canadian Fiction by David Staines can be purchased for eight dollars through this link. 'A Pearl of Great Price' is now available as the ninth number in the Biblioasis Short Fiction Series. Limited to one hundred numbered and signed copies, it is a thing of uncommon beauty.

Related post:
What Is A Canadian Fiction?

Nelson Ball (1942 - 2019)

Thoughts this weekend have been with Nelson Ball, who died this past Friday. I first encountered Nelson as a poet, and later as a bookseller. He knew more about Canada's fly-by-night post-war paperback houses than anyone. It was my good fortune to have been able to tap his knowledge. Unfailingly generous, Nelson shared my enthusiasm, encouraged my exploration of CanLit's dustier corners, and took joy in my discoveries (most particularly Richard Rohmer's pseudonymously published volume of verse).

Nelson supplied me with dozens of books over the years: Sugar-Puss on Dorchester Street, Flee the Night in Anger, Bad Men of Canada... but of all he sent my way, I value nothing so much as Minutiae, a limited edition chapbook he published in 2014 with Cameron Antsee's Apt. 9 Press. A gift, it was included in an order for Sin for Your Supper, Dirty City, Frustration, No Place in Heaven, Overnight Escapade, Strange Desire, Daughters of Desire, He Learned About Women, and Too Many Women.

Its inscription reads "For Brian Busby - with admiration."

Right back at you, Nelson.

I thank you for your kindness. I'm grateful that our paths crossed.

You will be missed.

You are missed.

RIP

Addendum: Cameron Anstee and rob maclennan share their memories of Nelson.

A Scarytale of Old York

The Gerrard Street Mystery

John Charles Dent

Constance Bay: Three Bats, 2017

32 pages

A Christmas gift read on Christmas Day, "The Gerrard Street Mystery" is one of the very few Christmas ghost stories to come out of Victorian Canada. You'll get no argument from me if you disagree. There is a ghost, but the holiday is mentioned only briefly. Though the climax takes place in December 1861, the narrator and hero misses Christmas Day itself because he is unconscious.

The title story of The Gerrard Street Mystery and Other Weird Tales, issued in 1888 by Rose Publishing, this is, of course, the work of a dead man. I've always found it interesting that the book was put together within weeks of his funeral. Why the rush? There couldn't have been much hunger for such a thing; John Charles Dent was not known as a writer of fiction, but as a journalist historian, and biographer. Prior to that, he'd been a lawyer, which may account for the legal-sounding start to this weird tale:

My name is William Francis Furlong. My occupation is that of a commission merchant, and my place of business is on St. Paul Street, in the City of Montreal. I have resided in Montreal ever since shortly after my marriage, in 1862, to my cousin, Alice Playter, of Toronto.

William gives a brief, dry account of his early life – stained by the loss of his parents – in order to explain how it was that he came to be raised by his uncle, Richard Yardington, a prominent Toronto businessman. Cousin Alice, was not so unfortunate in that she lost only her mother. However, as her father is a man of "dissipated habits," she too was taken into Uncle Richard's care. As the years pass, William's "childish attachment" to Alice ripens to "tender affection," and the two become engaged. Though their uncle shares nothing of "the prejudice entertained by many people against marriage between cousins," he is a firm believer that his male ward should demonstrate the ability to provide. Thus, William embarks for Australia, so as to better oversee his business interests.

Four years pass, during which William amasses a respectable return. Uncle Richard writes calling him home. William responds that obligations will prevent a return for a further six months, but his business wraps up early, and he is soon on a ship sailing from Melbourne. No use in writing Uncle Richard or Alice of course; he'd likely arrive in Toronto on the same day as his letter.

Mystery in "The Gerrard Street Mystery" begins en route when William, on a lark, asks whether there might be something for him in General Delivery at the main post office in Boston's Merchant's Exchange Building.

He is gobsmacked to discover that there is!

The letter is from Uncle Richard*:

How could affectionate Uncle Richard have known that his ward would be in Boston? Why would he think that William might ask for a letter at General Delivery? How could Uncle Richard have known he'd be home for Christmas? Most of all, what sorrow has befallen beloved Alice?

Answering these questions would only spoil the story. Instead, I'll borrow a page from my friend J.F. Norris of Pretty Sinister in sharing three things I learned in reading the story:

William returns to Toronto via the mid-day express from Hamilton. As his train arrives at Union Station, he spots Uncle Richard in the Waiting Room. Until then, I had no idea that Union Station of 1861 was so very, very small.

Not to be outdone by Boston, the main Toronto post office also figures. Though it no longer serves to carry Her Majesty's mail, the building still stands. Today, it's most famous as the building from which convicted criminal Conrad Black removed his famous 13 file boxes.

A fleeting reference to the book The Debatable Land Between This World and the Next (1871) introduced me to the Scottish-American social reformer and spiritualist Robert Dale Owen. Much of the rest of the Christmas Day was spent dipping in and out of his other work. In The Policy of Emancipation (1863) I found these words, reproduced from 23 September 1862 letter Owen sent to President Lincoln:

In days when the public safety is imminently threatened, and the fate of a nation may hang upon a single act, we owe frank speech, above all other men, to him who is highest in authority.

A wise man was Mr Owen.

Here's wishing us all a Happy and Peaceful New Year.

Object and Access: A very attractive chapbook, letterpress printed in 10pt Baskerville on Reich Savoy paper. Issued in an edition of thirty-five, it was a Christmas gift from Three Bats' publisher Jason Byers.

* This image from the very poor microform copy of The Gerrard Street Mystery and Other Weird Tales available at the Internet Archive.

'Halifax in Ruins' by Stanley Burton Fullerton

Verse for the one hundredth anniversary of the Halifax Explosion by Stanley Burton Fullerton of Amherst, Nova Scotia. A carpenter by trade, the poet enlisted the month before his forty-seventh birthday. He was serving overseas at the time of the disaster.

Halifax in Ruins

It was on the sixth of December,
     The Day I never forget,
When steaming up our harbour,
     Came that Fatal Ship.

Then came the sound of fire
     What ever can it be?
It is on board that fatal ship,
     Loaded with that dangerous T.N.T.

Then came the roars like thunder,
     What ever can it be
Some thought it was the Germans
     From far across the sea.

Then came a flash like lightning,
     That swept over our town,
And crumbled up our buildings,
     And played them to the ground.

Then came the sound of weeping,
     And goals from everywhere.
My God! It is so dreadful to see
     Our loved ones perish there.

Then thousands came from everywhere,
     To help those loved ones in despair,
My God, To see that dreadful sight,
     With bodies strewn along the streets that night.

Such sights that were seen, can never be told
     From the ones that were rescuing those poor wounded souls.
Weeping and crying came from everywhere,
     And mothers offered up to God their favourite prayer.

The lights went out, the streets were dark,
     And groans were heard from every part.
Helping hands came from every where,
     To rescue those who were suffering there.

They toiled all night till break of morn,
     And then came down that dreadful storm.
And willing hands that worked so fast,
     Rescued those poor souls at last.

Doctors and nurses came from everywhere,
     Dressed the wound of the sufferers there.
In homes of comfort they were placed,
     With smiling courtesies on their faces.

The undertakers came from everywhere,
     And washed and dressed those who perished there.
Into their coffins they were laid,
     And taken to the resting place.

The tale of the rescuers can hardly be told,
     Of the brave ones, who worked in the storm and the cold.
They worked night and day and never gave up,
     Till the bodies were taken from under the stuff.

Here's to Capt. Harrison, who was thoughtful in mind,
     He saw there was danger in the ship that was moored.
So he cut her adrift and steamed out of the bay,
     And sailed her to safety, where no danger lay.

Now we come to the Steamer, that was ruined that day.
     Her anchor stock was blown two and a half miles away
Even box cars were blown across the wide waves,
     And her big guns were carried 'way out in the bay.

Now she is gone and will sail never more,
     Her big iron plates are all over out shores.
The game will be remembered for long years to come,
     The great wreck and ruin and sadness she done.

Now our people are cared for in huts everywhere,
     And their homes that were ruined, will soon be repaired.
And they will  be placed in their homes once more,
     And dwell by the harbour in peace ever-more.

Thanks to our Government, who thoughtfully responded
     Sending the needed with every-thing wanted.
In money and food stuffs that hastily came,
     To those who were homeless and deserving of same.

Even Australia responded to the call,
     And sent us their gold from that far off land.
To those who were suffering from that dreadful day
     And helped to build up their homes that were blown away.

And even dear England with her troubles at hand,
     She sent us assistance to built up the land
We'll never forget what she has done,
    And always be true to her. As true as the Sun.

Here's to the Star Spangles Banner that waves in the breeze,
     That stands for Liberty, over land and seas.
For the help they gave  in our time of need,
     And binds fighter the friendship for so noble a deed.

When the word was flashed across the line.
     That a helping and was needed.
How nobly the call was answered,
     From those true friends across the seas.

They sent us relief in abundance,
     It came from every-where.
To comfort our homeless loved ones.
     That were so sadly in despair.

Half of our town is lying in ruins,
     And our buildings are badly smashed.
But President Wilson says to build them up again
     And they will send over the cash.

Here's to that good old Union Jack,
     And to the Allies that are it'd defenders.
We thank the Star Spangled Banner
     For the help that they rendered.

The Union Jack and Stars and Stripes,
     I pray will always wave together,
God bless them for evermore,
     And our Maple Leaf Forever.

"Halifax in Ruin" appeared in the Fullerton's sixteen-page chapbook Poems (1918). It can be read in its entirety here, through the Internet Archive.

Note: "SGT. S.B. FULLERTON" is incorrect; in fact, the poet never rose above the rank of private. Let's just say it was a printer's error.

Related posts:

'Over the Top: Ypres, July 31, 1917', a Great War Poem

by 'Sgt. S.B. Fullerton, Returned Soldier'

Trotsky: The Accidental Terrorist

Timeless Advice from Stephen Leacock

Bagdad on the Subway
Stephen Leacock
[n.p.]: [s.n.], 1916

'Autumn, 1917' and 'Autumn, 1917'

For this first day of the season, two century-old poems of the Great War, both titled "Autumn, 1917," both written by women on the homefront. The first, by Helena Coleman, the pride of Newcastle, Ontario, is found in her chapbook Marching Men (Toronto: Dent, 1917):

AUTUMN, 1917

(A.L.T.)

               We know by many a tender token
                    When Indian-summer days have come,
               By rustling leaves in branches oaken
                    And by the cricket's sleepy hum. 

               By aspen leaves no longer shaken,
                    And by the river's silvered thread,
               The oriole's swinging cup forsaken,
                    Emptied of music overhead. 

               By long slant lines on field and fallow.
                    By mellowing portals of the wood,
               By silences that seem to hallow
                    Inviting us to solitude.... 

               Are there young hearts in France recalling
                    These dream-filled, blue Canadian days,
               When gold and scarlet flames are falling
                    From beech and maple set ablaze? 

              Pluck they again the pale, wild aster,
                   The bending plume of golden-rod?
              And do their exiled hearts beat faster
                   Roaming in thought their native sod? 

              Dream they of Canada crowned and golden,
                  Flushed with her Autumn diadem?
              In years to come when time is olden,
                  Canada's dream shall be of them — 

              Shall be of them who gave for others
                   The ardour of their radiant years; —
              Your name in Canada's heart, my brothers,
                   Shall be remembered long with tears! 

              We give you vision back for vision,
                  Forgetting not the price you paid,
              O bearers of the world's decision,
                  On whom the nations' debt was laid! 

              No heart can view these highways glowing
                  With gold transmuted from the clod,
              But crowns your glorious manhood, knowing
                  You gave us back our faith in God.

Miss Coleman's poem also features in John W. Garvin's Canadian Poems of the Great War (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1917), in which we find another "Autumn, 1917." This one comes from the pen of Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald, sister to fellow poets Sir Charles God Damn, Theodore Goodrich, and William Carman Roberts.

AUTUMN, 1917 

                       The rain and the leaves together

                            Go drifting over the world;

                       Autumn has slipped his tether

                            And his flag of death unfurled. 

                       'Tomorrow — tomorrow — tomorrow — '

                            Hear how the grey wind cries!

                       Tomorrow the stark bare branches,

                            Tomorrow the steel-cold skies. 

                       The garnet leaves and the golden

                            Are tossed and trampled and thrown

                       As the hopes of man when the trumpets

                            Of crimson war are blown. 

                       Unleashed are the hounds of anguish

                            That hunt the heart of man

                       To tear its dream-bright garments,

                            To rend its valiant plan; 

                       Honour and valour, the priceless

                            Blood of our heroes slain, —

                       Shall their offering all be wasted,

                            Their sacrifice be vain? 

                       No; for the great ideal

                            For which our hearts have bled

                       Lives — by each field of honour,

                            Lives — by our countless dead; 

                       And a wind of Life is blowing,

                            A golden trumpet calls:—

                       'Rally — rally — rally, — 

                            Till the dark fortress falls!'

Related posts:

'A New Year comes white-winged, unstained, a star...':

Bethune Hallowell Bowen's 'The New Year, 1917 A.D.'

Verse from an April a Century Past:

Bernard Freeman Trotter's 'An April Interlude — 1917'

'Canada to England, July 1st 1917' by Horace Bray

'Over the Top: Ypres, July 31, 1917',

a War Poem by Sergeant Stanley B. Fullerton, Returned Soldier

Timely Verse from Christmas a Century Past:
Elizabeth Roberts MacDonald's 'A Christmas Star

'Over the Top: Ypres, July 31, 1917', a Great War Poem by 'Sgt. S. B. Fullerton, Returned Soldier'

Century-old verse by Stanley Burton Fullerton (1869-1952), resident of Amherst, Nova Scotia, from his self-published chapbook Poems (1918). The poet's spelling and punctuation are respected, as is his false claim to having achieved the rank of sergeant.

OVER THE TOP

Ypres, July 31, 1917 

Calm was the morning, not a Hun to be seen,

     As I peeped o'er the land which at one time was green

There in the distance, with a tangle and twine

     Lay the broken barbed wire of the German first line 

Peacefull it looks now, but, ah, they don't know

     That our Boys will be over, we have not long to go.

As I stood in the trench with my phone on my back,

     I looked at our boys who were soon to attack. 

You could tell by their faces, they were deeply in thought

     As you'll always see them before the battle is fought

I then heard a whisper, what's that I hear?

     It was passed by their Captain, is the signaller here. 

Yes, I replied, sir, he answered, thank you

     Two minutes, sir, for zero, it was time to stand to

In that two minutes, they filled the first line,

     Then a roll of great thunder and up went our mine. 

Oh, what an explosion it made one feel shocked

     As we stooped 'til it settled, Lord, how the ground rocked

Then, with a spring, a jump and a hop,

     Like pulled with a string we were over the top. 

Crash, bang, went our guns an unceasing clatter

     As the German first line we started to batter. 

It was like one long fire, with a bursting of shell 

     Nothing could be worse for him, no, not even hell, 

We reached their first line and were slashing them hard,

     Some called for mercy Oh, mercy comrad

With terror stricken faces they were trembling with fright,

     When we get to close quarters they've no heart to fight. 

Onward we went with a rush through the mud

     For our next obective which was, this time, a wood.

At this we were cautious, they had so many runs,

     We knew it was fortified with many machine guns. 

I spoke on my phone and warned my O. C.

     Fire on second target, sir, the big scraggy tree.

I'm going to fire now, he said, so take a good sight

     That is just about it, sir, try two degrees, right 

Got them, that's perfect let them have fifty rounds;

     I knew that would get them, they are running like hounds. 

Now for a smoke as calmly I stood

     Watching my shells burst into the wood. 

Then came a runner with a message that read

     Order all guns to lift, we will now go ahead.

Onward they went, some at the double

     Taking the same wood without so much trouble. 

Then came the report; our objectives are gained 

     The advance was completed so there they remained

It was now gettiug late and night drawing near

     So I found an old dug out, says I, I'l stop here. 

What a miserable feeling as I sat there alone 

     And smoked up my woodbine with my ear to the phone

Then laid my head on a dirty old sack

     Waiting, in case of a counter attack.  

It poured, Heavens hard, rained all through the night, 

     Wet through and slashed up, I did look a sight;

Moreover than that I was feeling half dead 

     Being forced to partake of some German black bread. 

Then came the next morning I was pleased to see light,

     Thanking God to myself for his guard through the night

On my phone came a call so I answered hello;

     A Battery, signaller, you may pick up and go. 

I then disconnected, put the phone on my back

     Then took a glimpse around to make sure of my track.

I braced myself up after picking my trace,

     Then set off in excitement, you bet, a good pace 

Firmiy I walked beneath the Hun's bursting shell

     I am in for a hot time, I know it quite well

Then eventually I reached my old battery once more

     I was pleased to sit down by my old dug out door 

I sat there thinking of what would come next

     I thought of the trenches so badly wrecked.

I have been in some battles but proved this the worst

     I will never forget YPRES on July thirty first

Related post:

'After Ypres' by Robert Stanley Weir

Celebrating la Fête in 19th-Century Massachusetts

Pamphlet-souvenir de la fête patronale des Canadiens-
     français de Lowell, Mass., le 24 juin 1891
Lowell, MA: Bureaux et ateliers d'imprimerie de l'étoile, 1891

An item I don't own, though I dearly wish I did, this pamphlet-souvenir is just the sort of thing that 19th-century American nativists might've used as ammunition. Twenty-first-century nativists favour ammunition of a different sort.

I can't look at it without thinking of Antoine Gérin-Lajoie's Jean Rivard, le défricheur and Jean Rivard, économiste, twin fantasies written in an effort to stem the southern flow of Canadiens. Nearly one million francophone Quebecers left for New England in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Charles Laflamme, Commissaire-Ordonnateur-en-Chef de la Fête St-Jean-Baptiste, was one.

Inspector Laflamme is one of twenty-eight men – they're all men – featured in this chapbook. Note the emphasis accorded his place of birth. Others came from Béconcour, Longueuil, Sherbrooke, Trois Rivières, l'Avenir, St-Eustache, St-Valentin, St-Laurent, St-Judes, St-Grégoire, St-Guillaume d'Upton and St-Théodore d'Acton. No one appears to have done so well for himself as Doctor J.D. Desisle.

The mind behind Dr Delisle's Kinium Compound Wine, he was clearly a man of means, and could easily afford a full page ad.

It's remarkable just how many pharmacies advertised in the pamphlet-souvenir; I count eight, including these two.

This being la Fête, as one might expect, a fair number of the ads play on patriotism...

...but most are ads from firms that neither play up nor hide their heritage.

And then there are the ads placed by those who saw la Fête St-Jean-Baptiste as an opportunity to show their appreciation for their immigrant neighbours:

Imagine.

The Internet Archive has scans of the pamphlet-souvenir here. 

Related posts:

A Highly Inappropriate St-Jean-Baptiste Advert

Burpee's Bad 'St. John the Baptist': Truly Criminal
La Fête: Il y'a 100 ans

Canadian Womanhood on Parade!

'Ô Canada! mon pays! mes amours!'

A Song for la Fête de la St-Jean

Encore!

Victoria Day Verse from Victoria

An ode to the city, a tribute to Her Late Majesty, but more than anything a pitch to tourists, Victoria the Beautiful (self-published, 1917) is one of only two poems I've been able to find by city resident Levi Houghton (d. 1918). The other, My Trip Through the Rockies (self-published, 1917), is interesting for its use of the words "mount" and "mountain" – forty-four appearances in 83 lines.

Here he rhymes "Nature's splendour" with "say I'll mend her".

Enjoy!

VICTORIA THE BEAUTIFUL 

                    Canada's vast and myriad acres, —
                         Central prairies wheat's domain, —
                    Ancient cities of th' Atlantic, —
                         All have share in praise's strain.
                    But of thou,—Dominion's fairest.
                         Brightest, sceniest, beauteous spot.
                    Those who chant of other places.
                         These are they who know thee not.
                                                                                VICTORIA! 

                    Honoured name on British tongue, —
                         She who dignified the Throne,
                    Left a name, 'twill last as long,
                         Long as thou dost bear her own!
                    City thou, — Dominion's Queen.
                         Regal true in Nature's splendour;
                    None like thee can e'er be seen, —
                         None can say I'll mend her.
                                                                                VICTORIA! 

                    O, this City, all that's fair:
                         Thy boulevards beyond compare,
                    Trees of every shade and hue, —
                         Chestnut, maple, lilac, yew.
                    Rustic scenes and shady bowers.
                         City of roses, city of flowers!
                    Hollies green, some variegated, —
                         Glorious England here translated!
                                                                                VICTORIA! 

                    England's beauty known so wide;
                          (Surely thou art England's sister-twin,)
                    Truly thou art dignified,
                         Fair without and fair within!
                    Old Ocean laps thy numerous Bays,
                         Bright Sol bedecks thy Parks,
                    With emerald green thy winding ways.
                         Call forth extolled remarks!
                                                                                VICTORIA! 

                    Rocky headlands, sandy beaches;
                         Mounts aspire to meet the sun;
                    Nature loving thou dost teach us,
                         Whilst we round with motors run.
                    Gnarled old oaks and Douglas pine,
                         Gardens grand delights our fill,
                    But who can yet compare design
                         With the broom on Beacon Hill!
                                                                                VICTORIA! 

                    O'er the Straits of Juan de Fuca,
                         Olympic stately mountains see, —
                    Delighting visiting onlooker,
                         And he hails the sight with glee!
                    Cousin Sam's in thousands coming
                         Year by year to see thy glory,
                    And he ne'er forgets his roaming, —
                         Tells abroad thy wondrous story!
                                                                                VICTORIA! 

                    For 'round thee he's been a-hunting
                         Cougar, bear, and deer and moose,
                    Likewise also gone a-fishing.
                         All his business cares cut loose.
                    Oak Bay Links, and those of Colwood,
                         Reached he these by street-car ride;
                    Boating, bathing, tennis, billiard,
                         All these pleasures, — more beside!
                                                                                VICTORIA!

                    Mild's the clime, and summer not too hot;
                         'Tis minus Zero of the prairie;
                    Come and visit this blest spot,
                         Come yourself and bring dear Mary.
                    Come in Winter, come in Spring,
                         Come in Summer, Autumn too,
                    And when you come this song you'll sing:
                         "Victoria the whole year through!"
                                                                                VICTORIA!

Related posts:

A Civil Servant's Awful Victoria Day Poem

Queen Victoria and He

Victoria Day Poetry Disaster

Verse for Victoria Day by the Master of All Poets

Cheery Victoria Day Verse from the Cheese Poet

'Away to Canada' – A Song for Victoria Day

Miss Machar's 'The Call of Christmas - 1914'

The title poem from Agnes Maule Machar's "The Call of Christmas – 1914". What can be said about this scarce chapbook? Who published it? When? Where? 'Tis a true Christmas miracle.

Related post:

Christmas Greetings from Gay Page

Christmas Verse by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay

Arthur Stringer Pines for Christmas

Christmas Verse by Master of All Poets James Gay

Judging Covers

Any magazine that looks like that has got to be great. The new Canadian Notes & Queries – number 91 – is just that. Between Seth's wrap-around cover you'll find contributions by Kamal Al-Solaylee, Donald A. Bailey, Emily Donaldson, Stephen Fowler, Keath Fraser, Michael Harris, Finn Harvor, Jesse Jacobs, John Miller, Anakana Schofield, Derek Sharpton, Leanne Sharpton, Tom Smart, Meaghan Strimas, Bruce Whiteman and Nathan Whitlock.

This issue's collectable takes the form of an excerpt from David Constantine's forthcoming novel In Another Country. A limited edition, numbered chapbook, it's available to subscribers only. So, subscribe already.

My contribution looks at the career of Montreal's Ronald J. Cooke, a man remembered (not really) for the 1949 novel The House on Craig Street. Harlequin's seventh book, its sales prompted News Stand Library to produce an edition for the American market.

Both covers are by D. Rickard. Aren't they swell?

An industrious writer, Cooke was quick with a second novel, The Mayor of Côte St. Paul (1950), but it didn't do nearly as well. He spent the remainder of his career publishing industry magazines and booklets with titles like How to Clip Newspaper Articles for Big Profits. Each indistinct in their own way,  the literary historian finds relief in The House on Dorchester Street (1979), a late third novel that tries to capture something of past success.

It failed.

One can find fault with publisher Vesta's shoddy production values, but blame really belongs to Cooke himself. The House on Dorchester Street is both horrible and forgettable; in this way, it marks a significant departure for Cooke as a novelist. The House on Craig Street is a bad piece of writing, but lingers in one's memory. The Mayor of Côte St. Paul, though only slightly better, has elements so interesting and strange – rumrunning, stalking, drowning, death by darts and Lunenburg lingerie – that I've encouraged its reissue as part of the Ricochet Books series.

Look for it early in the New Year.

I think the cover is swell.

Related posts:

The Messy World of Ronald J. Cooke

Ronald J. Cooke, No Blockhead

The Great War: The Reveille of Romance

Peregrine Acland, 1914

THE REVEILLE OF ROMANCE

(Written in early October, 1914, in mid-ocean, on board H.M. Troopship “Megantic,” of the fleet bearing the first contingent of the Canadian Expeditionary Force to England.)

     Regret no more the age of arms,
          Nor sigh “Romance is dead,”
     Out of life’s dull and dreary maze
          Romance has raised her head.

     Now at her golden clarion call
          The sword salutes the sun;
     The bayonet glitters from its sheath
          To deck the deadly gun;

     The tramp of horse is heard afar
          And down the autumn wind
     The shrapnel shrieks of sudden doom
          To which brave eyes are blind.

     From East and West and South and North,
          The hosts are crowding still;
     The long rails hum as troop-trains come
          By valley, plain and hill;

     And whence came yearly argosies
          Laden with silks and corn,
     Vast fleets of countless armed men
          O’er the broad seas are borne.

     All come to that gay festival
          Of rifle, lance and sword,
     Where toasts are pledged in red heart’s blood
          And Death sits at the board.

     Now Briton, Gaul and Slav and Serb
          Clash with the Goth and Hun
     Upon grim fields where whoso yields
          Romance, at least, has won.

     Though warriors fall like frosted leaves
          Before November winds,
     They only lose what all must lose,
          But find what none else finds.

     Their bodies lie beside the way,
          In trench, by barricade,
     Discarded by the Titan will
          That shatters what it made.

     Poor empty sheaths, they mark the course
          Of spirits bold as young:
     Whatever checked that fiery charge
          As dust to dust was flung.

     For terrible it is slay
          And bitter to be slain,
     But joy it is to crown the soul
          In its heroic reign.

     And better far to make or mar,
          Godlike, for but a day,
     Than pace the sluggard’s slavish round
          In life-long, mean decay.

                       * * * * * *

     Who sighs then for the golden age?
          Romance has raised her head,
     And in the sad and somber days
          Walks proudly o’er your dead.

Related posts:

Remembering Peregrine Acland

Alec Falcon, c'est moi
A Neglected Novelst's Neglected Grave
The Great Canadian Great War Novel

Bilious, Bitchy and Bedevilled by Spite? Not at All.

Just in time for Christmas, the new Canadian Notes & Queries is here. Seth provides the cover, along with a short tribute to the Maclean's illustrated cover. The magazine switched to photographs before I came along, but old issues lingered in our home. The 10 January 1952 cover by Oscar Cahén was a favourite. I think of it each dying year as winter moves in.

Here I am getting all nostalgic.

John Metcalf, not Maclean's, is the focus of this CNQ. Contributors include Caroline Adderson, Mike Barnes, Clarke Blaise, Michael Darling, Alex Good, Jeet Heer, Kim Jernigan, David Mason and Dan Wells. Cartoonist David Collier gives us a two-page adaptation of Going Down Slow. Roy MacSkimming, Christopher Moore and Nick Mount have interviews with the man, while I praise Metcalf's invigorating, irreverent Bumper Books.

But wait, there's more: a new short story from Kathy Page, four poems by Jim Johnston, along with reviews from Steven W. Beattie, Kerry Clare, Emily Donaldson and Bruce Whiteman.

I think all contributors will forgive and understand that my favourite thing about the issue is the collectable. A numbered, limited edition chapbook containing a new John Metcalf story, it's available only to subscribers.

And subscriptions are only $20.

And they make a great Christmas gift.

Here's how to order.

A bonus:

(cliquez pour agrandir)

The back cover of Carry On Bumping (Toronto: ECW, 1988).

Now, that's how you sell a book.