A Second 'To Jas. McIntyre'

from William Arthur Deacon's The Four Jameses (Ottawa: Graphic, 1927)

TO JAS. MCINTYRE

A man of mighty mark,

Who crossed the ocean dark

To win some glory;

Resolved to carve his name

High in Canadian fame,

And live in story.

And this methinks will be,

For friend and foe agree

Rare is his talent;

And as much diversified

As our world is wide.

Hail Scotia's gallant!

He racy is, and witty,

As shown by many a ditty

In humourous vein;

And some say wit's his forte,

His muse all turns to sport,

He eschews pain.

But we who know him best

'Gainst this view must protest

He's oft pathetic;

And with his pen so wise,

Can bring tears to the eyes

Of each ascetic.

Related post: Don't Answer the Door!

Don't Answer the Door!

Fort Frances Times, 8 February 1917.

The devoted daughter of James McIntyre, Kate Ruttan wrote several poems honouring her father, including at least two titled "To Jas. McIntyre". This, the superior, was written in happy times, before McIntyre's business was lost to Canada's River Thames. Late in life, she described the gothic scene in a letter to William Arthur Deacon:

Foundation of furniture factory fell & sailed down the River Thames. Coffins, caskets, cupboards, card tables, chairs, pianos, pianolas - all commingled in confusion worse confounded. Also he was previously burned out. He wrote me his true townsmen collected Six Hundred Dollars for him that mournful morn. He was the loveliest man on earth.

It seems Mrs Ruttan inherited her father's bad luck. Widowed at a young age, she struggled to support her small family by working as a schoolteacher, postmistress, newspaper columnist and, it seems, door-to-door salesperson for evangelist Billy Sunday. Her only volume of verse, Rhymes, Right or Wrong, of Rainy River, was published in 1926 by the Fort Frances Times. She died two years later.

Related post: A Second 'To Jas. McIntyre'

A Poetic Argument for Gun Control

Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889)

Nablo in Paperback

Not much more to say about the elusive Nablo, though these paperback covers of The Long November are worthy of mention. The first, published by News Stand Library in 1948, juxtaposes a "Vigorous, lusty; a tale of passion and virile drive" with "AN R.C.A.F. VETERAN'S SENSATIONAL NEW NOVEL", as if to say: "Before you label this as smut, the publisher would like to point out that this novel was written by one of our heroic servicemen."

The artwork is a touch better than most News Stand Library covers, but makes the whole thing look like some light-hearted, mildly risqué romp. And where in Canada do leaves begin falling in November?

News Stand Library's second cover, from 1949, isn't a whole lot better. Does it not look like Steffie Gibson is drowning? Poor little rich girl, caught in a whirlpool with tiny autumnal leaves floating above her beautiful visage.

Predictably, the finest of the lot belongs to the 1952 Signet edition. "Too Many Women - Too Little Time" might not be the most original of pitches, but the cover captures the novel's dark mood and does depict an actual scene.

This last beat-up cover was rescued a couple of decades back from a store's 25¢ bin. It was being rained on and, I'm betting, was within an hour or two of being tossed. Appropriate then, that today's James McIntyre poem was inspired by a neglected book happened upon while out for a stroll, its pages "scattered o'er the ground".

Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889)

The volume concerned is The Posthumous Works of the Late George Menzies, Being a Collection of Poems, Sonnets, &c., &c., Written at Various Times When the Author was Connected with the Provincial Press. Published in 1850 by his widow, Harriet, it can't be bought for under two hundred dollars.

Related posts:

The Mysterious Mister Nablo

Nablo in Hollywood

Nablo in Hollywood

The only image I've been able to find of the Hollywood James Benson Nablo – and don't it look like crap. Blame attendees of the 1936 American Library Association's annual meeting and their enthusiastic endorsement of microfilm.

Published in the 11 May 1946 edition of the Globe and Mail, it has no article attached, so I can't begin to speculate as to why The Long November was never filmed. That said, is it not odd that the project is described as "the first motion picture attempted by Doyle-Nablo productions [emphasis mine]"? And don't the Doyles seem such an unhappy couple? Mrs Doyle looks to be scanning the room for the exit.

But co-producer Nablo is all smiles, as are the others around the table:

Brooke Burwell, who fits Nablo's description of Steffie Gibson to a tee, is a bit of a mystery woman. It appears she never made a film, and has not, to use another's terminology, "been traced".

Kenneth Roberts was a prolific writer, who had a number of forgettable films adapted from his equally forgettable historical novels.

Norman Reilly Raine was really an American, though he did work as a Toronto newspaperman, and later served in the Canadian army during the First World War. At the time this photo was taken, the 51-year-old would have been enjoying success for his adaptation of John Hersey's A Bell for Adamo (1945).

Raine's longtime flame, "Hollywood dancing star" Nova Dale, had one uncredited role as a chorus girl in 1951's Showboat. She died the following year, at the age of 31, several days after smashing up her car.

All this leads to Drive a Crooked Road (1954), which would be the first film based on a Nablo story. These nice, clear images from the trailer, point to a movie that is nowhere near as interesting as what is promised; evidence that promotion hasn't really changed all that much in the past half-century.

Finally, as part of the National Poetry Month promise, another James McIntyre poem. "Niagara Dry" recounts the day – 30 March 1848 – when both the Canadian Falls and its bland cousin ran dry. Nablo grew up just over a kilometre from the falls, practically across the street from where the Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum stands. Culture.

NIAGARA DRY

It happened once in early spring,

While there did float great thick ice cakes,

That then a gale did quickly bring

Them all down from the upper lakes.

And Buffalo to Lake Erie,

Across the entrance to river,

It was a scene of icebergs dreary,

Those who saw it will remember ever.

The gale blew up lake and river,

And left Niagara almost dry,

This a lady did discover

As above the Falls she cast her eye.

Such scene it had been witnessed never,

Since Israelites crossed the Red Sea,

When they had resolved forever

From Pharaoh's bondage to flee.

Lady she resolved to venture,

Proudly carrying British flag,

Erected it in river's centre

In crevice of a rocky crag.

It seems like a romance by Bulwer,

How she captured Niagara,

But it was seen by Bishop Fuller,

Who did at sight of flag hurrah.

Ten thousand years may die away

Before another dry can tread,

In bottom of Niagara,

For she doth jealous guard her bed.

But ice her entrance did blockade,

And wind it kept the waters back,

So that a child could almost wade

Across the brink of cataract.

Related posts:

The Mysterious Mister Nablo

Nablo in Paperback

The Last of James Benson Nablo?

Shorter Shelley

Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889)

Bit of an Edward Gorey feel to it, don't you think?

James McIntyre had such a hard time with names. For instance, there's that tribute to Susanna Moodie, in which he not only messes up her surname, but refers to William Lyon Mackenzie as "McKenzie". Here, of course, "Shelly" is Shelley. Perhaps a good thing that McIntyre didn't include the full name – Percy seems safe, but Bysshe is tricky.

Wildly Wayward Walt Whitman

To Toronto this evening for the launch of my friend George Fetherling's third novel, Walt Whitman's Secret, at Ben McNally Books.

So... in anticipation of this joyous event, James McIntyre's verse about the Good Gray Poet:

Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889)

D'Arcy McGee, All Compliment to Thee

James McIntyre's warm tribute to the great Thomas D'Arcy McGee, assassinated 142 years ago this morning.

Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889)

T.D. MCGEE.

Having been kindly invited as a member of the Mechanics' Institute some 25 years ago by the late Jeremiah O'Neill, Esq., to meet that gentleman in company of a number of our townsmen, when Mr. McGee was rising from the table the chair being new stuck to him and it being near a general election he very wittily remarked that he hoped the people of Montreal would be anxious to retain him in his seat as the people here are. We wrote the following lines at the time, the last verse was added afterwards.

D'Arcy McGee,

All compliment to thee,

The hope of the land

On your lecture so grand.

Though that is your forte,

Oh give us the sport

Of an hour of your chat,

Then we'll laugh and grow fat.

For none but the vile

Could 'ere cease to smile,

When near to thee

So brilliant and free.

Plant of green Erin's isle,

Long in Canadian soil,

May you take deep root

And bear much noble fruit.

Our hopes were in vain,

Alas he is slain,

By a crankish hand

The flower of the land.

Related posts:

'O Martyr'd McGee!'

D'Arcy McGee's Query (with a response)

A St. Patrick's Day Fragment

'IN MEMORIAM! The Hon. T.D. McGee'

A Poet's Angry Word With the Fenian Brotherhood

Funny He Never Married

Ingersoll's 1897 Fireman and Police Banquet. Hardly a woman in sight.

Today's James McIntyre poem is "Lines Addressed to an Old Bachelor". Here the twice married poet does his best to flog the idea of matrimony to one who does not care for female company.

Why not?

Do I read too much into the use of the word "wingle" – slang for penis?

Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889)

McIntyre's Mammoth Ode

Let's get this out of the way, shall we. All seven thousand pounds.

Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889)

Poetry, Pluck and Push

National Poetry Month, a time for balloons, ice cream and marching bands. I risk spoiling the party by pointing out, yet again, that William Arthur Deacon's The Four Jameses remains unavailable and, as if to add insult to injury, not one work by the critic's "monarchs of the quill" is in print. No James Gay, no James McIntyre, no James D. Gillis, no James MacRae... and yet brand new copies of Gordon Downie's Coke Machine Glow may be easily obtained through Amazon.ca.

I devoted last National Poetry Month to James MacRae, the son of Glengarry, whom I followed in adopting the little Ontario town of St Marys as my own. This year I'll be reading verse by Ingersoll's James McIntyre. Of the Four Jameses, McIntyre is certainly the best remembered – not one of the others has a contest named in his honour. So much of this limited recognition has to do with his "Ode on the Mammoth Cheese" and, by extension, McIntyre's reputation as "The Cheese Poet". The furniture maker/undertaker played this up to his own detriment; he had a much greater reach.

One hundred and sixteen years ago, in his tribute "To James McIntyre, the Poet", Ezra H. Stafford wrote:

He does not write at stated intervals.

But when some great truth startles and appalls.

McIntyre's voice has been still for over a century – he died 104 years ago yesterday. His work is finite, but we do have the luxury of reading when the spirit moves. No longer must we wait for the Globe, hoping that it might contain a new McIntyre poem.

So, in celebration of this National Poetry Month – and in recognition of the man's industry – I present one James McIntyre or McIntyre-related poem for each workday, beginning with his tribute to fellow Canadian writer Susanna Moodie.

Pay no heed to the misspelling of her name; this is what we refer to as poetic license.

Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889)

MRS. MOODY.

In giving glance at various Canadian authors perhaps it would be well to commence with that early writer Mrs. Moody. She was a sister of the celebrated Agnes Strickland, author of "The Queens of England."

When this country it was woody,
Its great champion Mrs. Moody,
She showed she had both pluck and push
In her work roughing in the bush.

For there all alone she will dwell,
At time McKenzie did rebel,
Outbreak her husband strove to quell,
Her own grand struggles she doth tell.

Round bush life she threw a glory,
Pioneer renowned in story,
But her tale it is more cheering
When she wrote about the clearing.

Her other sister, Mrs. Traill*
Though eighty-six, she doth not fail;
She now is writing of wild flowers
Grown in Canada's woody bowers.

* Mrs. Traill lives near Peterboro. Mrs. Moody died in Toronto. I sent her a copy of my poems in 1885, and she thanked me through a friend as she was in feeble health at the time.