The Girl Off the Train

One Way Street
Dan Keller [Louis Kaufman]
London: Hale, 1960
190 pages

Toronto boy Paul Saber has had a rough ten years. The earliest were spent as a commando in the Pacific theatre. After the fighting stopped, just as Paul prepared his return home, he received a "Dear John" letter. And so, Paul remained overseas, building an import-export business in Saigon. One presumes it was through this endeavour that he somehow ended up at the Battle of Dien Bien Phu:

"I wasn't a combatant, but I got mixed up in the whole mess and was captured by the Reds. It took me a year to escape back to Saigon, by that time there was little more left of my business than enough to pay my passage home."

He might've saved some money by taking a more direct route. Rather than cross the Pacific to Vancouver, Paul makes for Halifax, then travels the final leg to Toronto by train. He's only just set foot on the platform at Union Station when the jostling crowd forces an embrace with a fellow passenger:

"I am sorry," I apologised. "I'm afraid I lost my balance."

     She smiled. "It was as much my fault as yours, everyone is in such a rush."

This is a Canadian novel.

Toronto has changed. Not only is there a subway, the Royal York, at which Paul has a reservation, has undergone a significant expansion. Standing in its lobby, he spies the woman whose warm body he'd held at Union Station. She did not book ahead, meaning she's out of luck in getting a room. The helpful front desk clerk manages to secure accommodation at the Bentley, a much lesser hotel, and she sets off. Paul is so taken by her beauty that he follows at a discrete distance as she negotiates the city's darkened icy streets. Some might call it stalking. In any case, it's good that he did because she's pulled into an alley by two men. Paul rushes to the rescue, kneeing one in the groin as the other runs away.

The Princess Lounge, Royal York Hotel, 1954

He ushers the woman back the Royal York – the Princess Lounge, to be specific – where they down martinis, get to know one another, and fall madly, wildly, deeply, exasperatingly in love. No exaggeration. One Way Street is one of too many novels in which characters fall in love at first meeting.

Or is it second meeting? Does the bump (no grind) at Union Station count?

Paul's new love is beautiful blonde Patricia Bailey, a sophisticated and svelte Montrealer who models furs for a living. In the midst of their flirtations, Paul offers to exchange his room at the Royal York for hers at the Bentley. Patricia accepts. Because Patricia is a lady, she does not invite Paul in for a nightcap. Because Paul is a gentleman, he leaves the Royal York, trudging through frozen Toronto to the Bentley. Paul takes her room, and dreams of a new life with his new girl.

He awakens to find the Bentley in flames. Eighty-two will perish, but not our Paul. He ties together bedsheets and scales the outside of the building to the room one storey below. A body with bullet hole in the forehead lies on its floor, but given Paul's immediate circumstances, it is ignored. Paul makes for the hallway and is rescued by firefighters, but not before saving a young woman from certain death.

Our hero's recovery is a slow one; much of it is spent slipping in and out of consciousness. He emerges to find himself in the home of a prominent physician named Kahn. Seems a good thing, until Paul realizes that he's being held captive.

Because this is a mystery novel, further descriptions of the plot will only serve as spoilers. Still, there are things worth noting.

Let's begin with beautiful Patricia Bailey, who is not only a model, but a Montreal model. She's sharp as a tack, quick as a fox, and remarkably loyal. After she accepts Paul's marriage proposal – during what is either their second or third meeting – Patricia reveals that she comes from an extraordinarily wealthy family. Daddy is eager to give her anything and everything, but Patricia wants to prove that she came make it on her own. In short, Patricia Bailey is a fantasy figure, with the emphasis on figure. 

One Way Street should be of interest as one of the first mystery novels set in Toronto, but it is not. Union Station and the Royal York figure as settings, but Keller doesn't describe either. Remove these – along with fleeting references to the Toronto Star, the King Edward Hotel, the Ford Hotel, Front Street – and One Way Street could have been set in any other Canadian city.

The alleyway assault on Patricia aside, every crime in One Way Street is related to the heroin trade. This revelation, leads back to a character whom Paul confronts as the novel draws to a conclusion. He is "not without influence" in Toronto:

"I've moved heaven and earth, done everything in my power to get the narcotic laws changed, without success. There's only one way left open to me. If I can set up a clinic, get it operating successfully; prove that the drug addict is not necessarily a menace to society providing he is under medical care and is ensured a supply without having to murder or steal for it; then, when I'm caught, maybe people will sit up and take notice."

At the end of it all, this character, not Paul, proves to be the novel's greatest hero.

Pierre Poilievre will disagree.

Trivia: The front flap copy errs in placing Vietnam in the Middle East.

This may explain Paul's return to Toronto via Halifax.

Object: A very attractive hardcover in brown boards. The woman on the jacket is meant to be Patricia, right? If so, she should be a blonde with green eyes. Did you notice the two men in the alleyway? Are they the men who tried to mug her? I'm not so sure. Patricia never wears a yellow dress, and no woman would venture outside like that in a Toronto winter. Still, I like the illustration and wish the artist was credited.

My copy was purchased last year from a bookseller in Rochester, Kent. Price: £80.00.

The jacket offers no information about the author – more here – but it does have adverts for several other Hale novels.

Access: One Way Street enjoyed one lone printing. There were no further editions. As of this writing, four copies are being sold online. At the low end is a jacketless copy going for US$50.00. The most expensive is another jacketless copy going for US $427.44. Look in the middle and you'll find two signed copies, with jackets, at US$110.00 and US$187.50.

You know which to buy. 

Library and Archives Canada has a copy, as does the University of Calgary.

Related posts:

Toronto Noir, Montreal Noir and the Dark Road Between

The Man Who Hated Toronto

Murray and the Argonauts

Arizona Argonauts
H Bedford-Jones
New York: Doubleday, 1923
120 pages

Note: Arizona Argonauts is a novella infused with racial epithets.

Reader discretion is advised.

The cover is deceptive. Arizona Argonauts is not a western. The scene depicted comes from another writer's story. The main characters in this novella drive automobiles.

The first chapter is very strong. It begins with a conversation between Piute Tompkins and Deadoak Stevens, men of prominence in the dried-up former mining town of Two Palms, Arizona. There are two topics, the longest running involves their five-year-old investment in wells, pumping machinery, cement irrigation pipe, pear trees, and almond trees. They hope to see some return in another five years.  Of more recent interest is Tom Lee, a "Chinee" who is staying at Piute's hotel. The proprietor sees his lodger as a mystery:

"Ain't he? He is. Him, and that girl, and what in time they're a-doing here."
   "Even so," echoed Deadoak, as he rolled a list-less cigarette. "Who ever heard of a chink ownin' a autobile? Not me. Who ever heard of a chink havin' a purty daughter? Not me. Who ever heard of a chink goin' off into the sandy wastes like any other prospector? Not me. I'm plumb beat, Piute!"

The second chapter – there are thirteen in total – is even better. The focus here is Sandy Mackintavers. Six weeks before Piute and Deadoak's conversation, Sandy had been a player in New Mexico. A man whose "unscrupulous fingers had been clutched deep in a score of pies, sometimes leaving very dirty marks about the edge." However:

Somewhere a cog slipped; he had been indicted for bribery. That had broken the thick crust of fear which had enveloped him, had released his enemies from the shackles of his strong personality. Overnight, it seemed, a dozen men went into the courts against him, backed by the evidence of those who had taken his money and had done his dirty work.

Now broken and very nearly broke, Mackintavers drives aimlessly with the remnants of his once significant wealth tucked in his sock. He stops to offer two tramps a ride. The more talkative of the pair is skilled surgeon Douglas Murray. Two years earlier, Mackintavers paid the good doctor an even thousand dollars to remove his appendix. Murray was on top of his game back then, earning big money hand over scalpel:

"It was success that downed me — too much work. I had to keep going twenty hours a day to save human lives during the influenza epidemic. It started me working on dope. I knew better, of course, but thought myself strong.
   "The dream book got me at last, like it gets all the fools. One day, in the middle of an operation, I broke down. I had to have a shot quick, and I got it. I had to do it openly, if the man on the table were not to die; so I did it."

Though Murray managed to conquer "the dream book," the addiction left his reputation in tatters and emptied his wallet. The doctor's travelling companion is a reformed safecracker named Hobbs. Murray discovered Hobbs lying in a ditch, performed a roadside operation, and the two have been fast friends ever since. Mackintavers finds himself in the company of two men who, taken down a peg or three, look to become better people. Having recently suffered his own comeuppance, he's all of a sudden keen to follow their example.

Mackintavers, Murray, Hobbs meander into Two Palms, where they are immediately taken for a trio of rubes. Piute and Deadoak conspire to unload a worthless piece of land. Mackintavers, who knows a thing or two about mining, takes the deal. And then Tom Lee makes a more generous offer. 

Arizona Argonauts is the first thing I've ever read by Bedford-Jones. Because he was so very prolific – the man published twenty-five novellas and short stories that same year – I'd made the mistake of thinking he couldn't be any good.

I should've known better; no one publishes that much without some degree of talent.

Bedford-Jones weaves a really good story of mystery, intrigue, violence, and romance. His dialogue is sharp and characters uncommon. Murray is one of two who've struggled with drug addiction, the other being "yellow man" Lee.

The racist epithets and attitudes are jarring. They come from Piute, Deadoak, and an unnamed desert rat  who Murray happens to overhear in conversation with the owner of an ice cream parlour:

As I was sayin', Bill, it was the gosh-willingest thing I ever struck! Think o 'me purposin' mattermony, right off the bat like that — and a good-lookin' girl, I'm sayin'! And when she was feelin' around for the right words to accept me, prob'ly meanin' to fish around an' make me urge her a mite, I seen her ol' man come walkin' along. In about two shakes I seen he was a chink."

   "Yes?" The proprietor tipped Murray a wink, and set forth the ice cream.

   "What then?" "I faded right prompt," said the desert rat. "Right prompt! I dunno — It kind o' dazed me fer a spell. When I got into Two Palms next day, I was tellin' Piute Tomklns about it, and he up an' says them two was stayin' at his hotel — the chink and the girl, which same bein' his daughter, he allowed it was all right an' proper. I judge Piute was soakin' them right heavy, else he wouldn't ha' stood for chinks boardin' on him. Piute has his pride — .

Piute, Deadwood, and the desert rat speak as men of a time sadly not yet passed. Murray doesn't share their vocabulary, but he does share their racism, and so is troubled by his attraction to Claire, Tom Lee's daughter. As the novella progresses, and the doctor gets to know Lee, he undergoes a transformation.

It's trite to put it this way – "undergoes a transformation" –  but the words are apt. Murray comes to recognize his prejudice and believes it's been conquered. And yet the doctor is surprised to feel relief upon learning that Lee is Claire's adoptive father.

Arizona Argonauts first appeared in the May 1920 edition of Short Stories. Did its early readers focus on issues of  race? I'm guessing not. The budding romance between Claire and Murray is just one of the story's many threads. What I can say for certain is that Arizona Argonauts is not at all what I expected.

Appearances can be deceiving.

Object and Access: A cheap early American paperback with blank back cover. I believe my 1923 copy marks the novella's first appearance in book form. A 1924 Doubleday edition can be read online here at the Internet Archive. Date aside, the only difference I see is the inclusion of an illustration (above) not found in the former. As might be expected, the scene does not feature in the novella.

Library and Archives Canada and three of our academic university libraries have one or another of Doubleday's editions.

The Nick Eggenhofer illustration used by Doubleday comes from 11 April 1922 edition of Short Stories. It would appear to depict a scene in George Clifford Shedd's story 'The Man from Mirabito.'

The very same issue features 'The Silent City,' a short story credited to  H Bedford-Jones and "W.C Robertson" (which is thought to be one of Bedford-Jones's pseudonyms). 'Guilty,' by fellow Canadian Theodore Goodridge Roberts also features.

Related posts:

Romance Amongst the Racists

Ontario, Opium, and Cocaine

The Dustiest Bookcase: X is for X X X

The Dustiest Bookcase:
Short pieces on books I've always meant to review (but haven't).
This one's a cheat.
I reviewed The Whip Angels in this blog's earliest days, but have no other 'X' authors.

CanLit professors hold many, many secrets. Sitting through their lectures, I heard no mention of Grant Allen, Robert Barr, Margaret Millar, Ross Macdonald, Mavis Gallant, John Buell or Phyllis Brett Young. It wasn't until a course titled "American Writers of the Twenties," taught by an American, that I was introduced to John Glassco. Louis Dudek considered  Glassco's Memoirs of Montparnasse "the best book of prose written by a Canadian," but it wasn't on syllabi of we 'eighties CanLit students. Those looking to read the book today will find it available only through an American publisher. 

Why isn't Memoirs of Montparnasse taught in CanLit courses? Why isn't The English Governess?

Glassco's English Governess stands with his Squire Hardman as the greatest pastiches in Canadian literature. So great was his talent that academics have erred in describing the former as a work of Victorian erotica.

Edward VII was on the throne when Glassco was born. Elizabeth II had begun her long reign when Glassco wrote The English Governess. Victoria was more than a half-century dead.

Published under its Ophelia imprint, The English Governess was an Olympia Press bestseller. When seized by French authorities, publisher Maurice Girodias released a new edition with the title Under the Birch. It is the bestselling Olympia Press book by a Canadian author. The Whip Angels comes second.

The novel was first published in 1955 as by "X X X." Diane Bataille, the woman behind the novel, was born Princess Diane Kotchoubey de Beauharnais on 4 June 1918 in Victoria, British Columbia, She was the second wife of philosopher, librarian, pornographer Georges Bataille. He was her second husband. The Whip Angels may have been written in response to his claim that she'd never be able to write erotica that could stand up to his. Was "X X X" inspired by husband Georges' "Louis Trente" pseudonym? So little is known about Diane Bataille.

The Whip Angels is Diane Bataille's only known novel. It has been suggested that she wrote policiers for money, but evidence is lacking.

Like The English Governess, The Whip Angels is forever being ravaged by pirates. Separating the legitimate from the illegitimate is a challenge.

Diane Bataille is one of our bestselling authors. She is one of the very few Canadian Olympians.

Is it not time we recognize and celebrate Diane Bataille?

A Bonus: What my wife refers to as "Brian Busby music."

Related posts:

Canada's Olympians (Part I)

The Elusive Diane Bataille

Canada's Olympians (Part III)

The Squire Hardman Hoax: Naughtiness Abounds

A Forgotten Novelist's Hidden Debut

Joan Suter was thirty-seven when her first novel, East of Temple Bar, was published. She'd begun her working life as a fashion illustrator, then headed for Fleet Street, east of Temple Bar, where she found employment as an editor for Amalgamated Press and the George Newes Firm. Suter also wrote short stories under the name "Leonie Mason," which led to some confusion when the London Daily Herald (18 August 1938) reported on the marriage of "Miss Leonie Mason who writes fiction under the name of Joan Suter" to journalist Ogilvie "Punch" MacKenzie Kerr.

London Daily Herald, 18 August 1938

According to the Daily Herald, the wedding followed "a romance of 14 days, which began when they met in a darts match."

Sadly, by the time East of Temple Bar was published, Joan and Punch were no more. She had yet to divorce, but had already met second husband James Walker, a major in the 12th Canadian Tank Regiment. They married in Toronto on 20 September 1946. From that point onwards she wrote as "Joan Walker," and erased East of Temple Bar and her Leonie Mason fiction from her bibliography.

I was on a bit of a Walker tear earlier this year, reading and reviewing her novels Murder by Accident (1947) and Repent at Leisure (1957). In April, I spoke about the author with Dick Bourgeois-Doyle on his Canus Humorus podcast.

I review East of Temple Bar in the new issue of Canadian Notes & Queries. The exercise brought to mind my work on A Gentleman of Pleasure, a biography of self-described "great practitioner of deceit" John Glassco.  

Speaking of Glassco, Carmine Starnino's The Essential John Glassco (Porcupine's Quill) is one of the three reissues I chose for the What's Old feature; No Crystal Stair by Mairuth Sarsfield (Linda Leith Publishing) and The Tangled Miracle by Bertram Brooker (Invisible Publishing) are the two others.

All three belong on your bookshelves.

Invisible, let me know what you're up to!

As always, Seth provides the cover. The Landscape, his regular feature, concerns the long-dead Montreal Standard's magazine supplement.

Margaret Atwood looks at the the short stories of Clark Blaise.

Other contributors include:

Marc Allen

Barry Baldwin

Elaine Coburn

Robert Colman

Jeffery Donaldson

sophie anne edwards

Sadie Graham

Brett Josef Grunisic

Tom Halford

Rhiannon Ng Cheng Hin

Kate Kennedy

Marius Kociejowski

Kim Johntone

Robin Mackay

David Mason

Dominik Parisien

and 

Alice Petersen

Jean Marc Ah-sen interviews Dimitri Nasrallah.

Megan Durnford interviews Céline Huyghbaert.

Sindu Sivayogan adapts Shyam Saladurai's Cinnamon Gardens.

As always, the last page belongs to Stephen Fowler, who serves up Melva E Adams' Marshmallow Magic. Self-published in 1978, it belongs in every Canadian kitchen.

Subscribers receive John Metcalf's The Worst Truth: Regarding A History of Canadian Fiction by David Staines.

Sixty-one pages in length, I read it in one sitting.

Subscriptions to Canadian Notes & Queries can be purchased through this link.

My review of Prof Staines' history was written for another magazine.

It's coming.

Related posts:

Accidents Never Happen in a Perfect World

On the High Heels of Pleasure
Talking Joan Walker with Dick Bourgeois-Doyle
Joan Suter, Angus Hall, and the Collector in Me

Ralph Connor's Canada Dry

Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police:
   A Tale of the MacLeod Trail
Ralph Connor [Charles W. Gordon]

Toronto: Westminster, 1912
454 pages

We begin on an Inverleith rugby pitch. Scotland is up against Wales in the International. It's a close contest, in part because Allan Cameron, fierce-fighting half-back of the Scottish line, hasn't been playing up to snuff. In the dying minutes, the Scots get a lucky break when the ball comes tumbling Cameron's way. He hesitates, and the promise of victory turns to defeat.

"Oh-h-h-h, Cam-er-on!" is the novel's first sentence. What has happened to Scotland's star player?

The answer is drink.

This is not to suggest that Cameron was under the influence during the game, rather that "he was out of condition; he had let himself run down last week, since the last match, indeed, got out of hand a bit."

The loss isn't the worst of it. Days later, Cameron faces arrest for passing a forged cheque. He doesn't remember doing so, but is unable to deny the charge because... well, you know, drink. 

The half-back is saved from arrest by Miss Brody, rugby-loving niece of the Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Bank of Scotland, and Cameron's conscience is later cleared when a dishonourable drinking buddy owns up to the crime. However, the damage has been done; Cameron has decided to give up drink, give up his studies, and make a new life for himself in Canada, envisioning himself "a wealthy rancher, ranging over square miles of his estate upon a 'bucking broncho,' garbed in the picturesque cowboy dress."

Instead, he ends up a low-level clerk at a Montreal shipping company.

The job doesn't last long – something to do with losing his temper and throwing his superior against a wall – and so, newly unemployed, Cameron does what we've all done in the same situation by taking in a travelling circus. There he chances upon farmer Tom Haley and his son Timmy who've come to the city to take in the show and purchase provisions for the family farm. Sadly, young freckle-faced Timmy winds up outside one of the drinking tents dotting the circus grounds as inside his father – rather sloshed – begins dipping into the money meant for baking flour and such. Cameron comes to the rescue by dragging Tom out, beating back "circus toughs" in the process.

Grateful and somewhat sobered by the violence, Tom offers our hero a position on his farm, twelve miles outside of town. Cameron accepts. Before long, he's proven himself an expert milker of cows, hoer of beets, player of bagpipes, and temperate role model to young Timmy. Over the course of the growing season, unrefined Mandy, the farmer's daughter, falls for the new hired hand, which scares Cameron into setting out for the West.

Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police is divided fairly evenly into three books, each with very different settings: Inverleith, Montreal and surrounding countryside, and the Canadian West. As a reader I found the first the most entertaining. As a Montrealer, the second held some interest, but only because it depicted a unilingual city that never existed. The last third, in which our hero finds an enemy in a whiskey trader, held the most action, but there's only so much fisticuffs and gunplay I can take. Its depiction of "our Indians" and mythologizing of the NWMP was particularly hard to stomach:

To the whole country the advent of the police proved an incalculable blessing. But to the Indian tribes especially was this the case. The natives soon learned to regard the police officers as their friends. In them they found protection from the unscrupulous traders who had hitherto cheated them without mercy or conscience, as well as from the whiskey runners through whose devilish activities their people had suffered irreparable loss.
     The administration of the law by the officers of the police with firm and patient justice put an end also to the frequent and bloody wars that had prevailed previously between the various tribes, till, by these wild and savage people the red coat came to be regarded with mingled awe and confidence, a terror to evil-doers and a protection to those that did well.

In the introduction to his anthology Best Mounted Police Stories (Edmonton: U of Alberta Press, 1978), Dick Harrison writes that Connor "did more to create the literary image of the Mountie than any other writer." He doesn't say whether this is a good thing, but I'll suggest it is not.

At the end of it all, I was left wondering whether early readers of Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police were a touch disappointed. As Connor's title suggests, Cameron does indeed join the force, but this doesn't happen until the twenty-second of the novel's twenty-five chapters. By this point, I'd long since lost interest; the late introductions of Big Bear, Crowfoot, Louis Riel, and other historic figures to Cameron's story only irritated.  

Ultimately, Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police turned out to be another of those novels that gets off to a fairly good start, but quickly loses momentum, grows tired and begins to wander, much like Cameron on the pitch at Inverleith.

I've nothing more to add. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get a drink.

Bloomer: "When a fellow gets on the bum and gets into a hole he knows well that there'll be a lot of people tumbling over each other to get him out, hence he deliberately and cheerfully slides in."

Trivia: The novel was adapted to the silent screen in 1921 as Cameron of the Royal Mounted; an interesting title change given that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had replaced the North-West Mounted Police (note the hyphen) just the previous year.

Filmed in Banff, directed by son of Toronto Henry MacRae, unlike the vast majority of silent-era films Cameron of the Royal Mounted is not lost!

Well, not entirely.

The first three of its nine reels are preserved at Library and Archives Canada.

Object and Access: An embossed hardcover, typical of its time, mine is a first Canadian edition. The book was purchased eight years ago in London, Ontario. At most, it set me back two dollars.

Used copies are plentiful and cheap. Of those listed for sale online, Doran's first American edition in uncommon dust jacket is the one to buy. Price: US$40.00.

The Internet Archive offers several editions online, including the Westminster, which can be be read through this link. Sadly, there was no photoplay edition.

Related posts:

Dale's Dumb Luck; or, A Mountie Messes Up

The Atomic Dale; or, The Mounties Mess Up?

Queen Remembers a Forgotten Book

Joan Suter, Angus Hall, and the Collector in Me

I've got several paying projects on the go, all with tight deadlines, meaning there won't be any reviews here for the next month or so. Something to do with feeding the family, you understand.

However, I did want to share a few things about one of those paying projects: a review of Joan Suter's novel East of Temple Bar for my column in Canadian Notes & Queries. 

Until this year, Joan Suter's name meant nothing to me; I encountered it while researching Joan Walker, whose 1957 novel Repent at Leisure I reviewed here in January. Not much has been written about Walker or her career; most of what has, jacket copy included, refers to Repent at Leisure as a debut novel.

Marriage of Harlequin
Joan Walker
Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1962

I have Daryn Wright and Karyn Huenemann to thank for setting me straight. Their Joan Walker entry at Canada's Early Women Writers brings the revelation that Repent at Leisure wasn't the author's first novel, or even the second, but the third. Published in 1946 under her maiden name, East of Temple Bar was Walker's true debut. The same year saw her follow-up, Murder by Accident, which appeared under the pseudonym "Leonie Mason."

Copies of East of Temple Bar aren't plentiful, but they are inexpensive. I wanted the dust jacket, so and splurged all of £7.50 on mine. Money well spent, it brought this front flap:

East of Temple Bar was published in London by C & J Temple. A fragile pale green hardcover with thin pages, its worthy of study by those interested in supply constraints faced by printers in post-war England. My copy, purchased online from London's Small Library Company, once belonged to British novelist Angus Hall (1932-2009). As he would have been thirteen or fourteen when it was published, I'm guessing Hall bought it used when he was a young Fleet Street journalist.

East of Temple Bar revolves around Eve Smith and Hugh Fenwick, two friends who meet while working on Fleet Street. Like Hugh, Angus Hall became a film and theatre critic. Like Eve, he eventually left Fleet Street for a life as a novelist.

Hall's first novel, Love in Smoky Regions, was published in 1962 by Constable. It appears to have been very well-received; just look at the TLS quote on the cover of this paperback edition:

The High-Bouncing Lover (Hammond, 1966) was his second novel. Apparently, it's about a failed writer. I can't help but note that The High-Bouncing Lover was one of the working titles for The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald's first commercial failure.

By the time the 'seventies hit, Hall had made a reputation for himself as a horror writer. His 1969 novel Devilday was adapted to the screen as Madhouse (1974), starring Vincent Price.

He also wrote the novelization of this 1971 Hammer Horror:

And then there's this, which may frighten some readers:

I count sixteen titles in total, though it's hard to say for certain. Sadly, like Joan Walker (née Suter), Angus Hall is more or less forgotten. What remains of his personal library now rests with the Small Library Company. How it ended up there is an interesting story, told through this Abebooks podcast. One of the Company'a goals is "to find good homes for the books."

Angus Hall's copy of East of Temple Bar has found a good home on my Upper Canadian bookshelves. My only disappointment is that he didn't write his name in it.

Related posts:

On the High Heels of Desire

The Incomplete Repent at Leisure

Valentine's Day Cathode Ray Tube Afterglow

               Better than dreaming, look and you'll find
               Even more than the romance that's in your mind

For the morning after the night before, this four-decade-old advert for Harlequin's Superromance series.

That voice!

My wife identified it immediately as belonging to Luther Vandross. Further research reveals that Vandross co-wrote the song. 

I'm a fan.

It's interesting to note that the four titles representing the "4 NEW TITLES EVERY MONTH" were published over a seven-month period.

I wonder how they were chosen.

Abra Taylor wrote two of the four: Taste of Eden and River of Desire. Real name Barbara Brouse, she was the very first Harlequin Superromance novelist. Her Toronto Star obituary, found here on the Brouse family website, is provides an all too brief portrait of a remarkable woman.

Related post:

Loving the Mayor of Toronto 

Spoiled by a Publisher

Philistia
Grant Allen
London: Chatto & Windus, 1901
317 pages

Roughly one-third of the way though Philistia, Herbert Le Breton prepares to ascend the Piz Margatsch

I was hoping he'd be killed in the attempt.

The death would be hard on his mother, of course, but then Lady Le Breton is accustomed to loss. Some years before, her husband, Sir Owen, perished in the Indian Mutiny, leaving her with three young boys and an unexceptional military pension. The widow soldiered on, raising her sons in a modest townhouse in an exclusive neighbourhood. Its address had everything to do with keeping up appearances.

Herbert, the eldest son, holds a fellowship at Oxford; younger brother Ernest has set his sights on same. The third Le Breton boy, sickly sensitive Rupert, still lives at home. He has dedicated his life to Christ's teachings, helping the less fortunate in a manner that offends his mother's High Church Anglicanism. And yet it is Ernest, a dedicated socialist, who is the true black sheep of the family. Herbert is the most pragmatic of the three. Content to be blown about by prevailing winds, he's looking to land in whichever area of the political spectrum might bring the greatest advantage.

Oxford men, together Herbert and Ernest form one half of a clique that includes mathematician Henry Oswald, a Fellow and Lecturer at Oriel College. The last in their group, the Reverend Arthur Berkley, curate of St Fredegond's, has first-floor rooms in the front quad of Magdalen. 

All four men are close, but not nearly so that they know much about one another. No one is aware that Arthur is the son a poor shoemaker. Lady Le Breton's sons have some idea that Henry Oswald's parents are grocers in "the decayed and disfranchised borough of Calcombe Pomeroy."

It goes without saying that class distinction and geography mean nothing to Ernest, whose heart is won by Edith Oswald, Henry's lone sibling.

Can you blame him? Edie is as intelligent and personable as she is pretty. And, though low on the social scale she's dedicated to the betterment of the less fortunate.

The socialist proposes. The grocers' daughter accepts.

Ernest and Edith are a great match, but Herbert looks down on the couple. That he does has everything to do with my wish for his death on Piz Margatsch. You see, Henry too shares a relationship with a grocers' daughter: Selah Briggs. She knows him as "Herbert Walters." He's promised marriage, but has no intention of watching her walk down the aisle. In short, he's stringing her along.

Grant Allen's first novel, Philistia followed seven volumes of non-fiction, the earliest being Physiological Æsthetics (London: Henry S. King, 1877). In My First Book (London: Chatto & Windus, 1897),  Allen writes:

I wasn't born a novelist, I was only made one. Philosophy and science were the first loves of my youth. I dropped into romance as many men drop into drink, or opium-eating, or other bad practices, not of native perversity, but by pure force of circumstances. And this is how fate (or an enterprising publisher) turned me from an innocent and impecunious naturalist into a devotee of the muse of shilling shockers.

The author is being far too hard on himself. Philistia is no shilling shocker; it contains neither crime nor violence. One life is lost, but this is the result of an unfortunate accident. It's clear that Allen had no interest in writing an entertainment, rather he saw Philistia as an opportunity to employ fiction as a means of sharing his thoughts on science, evolution, religion, politics, and the distribution of wealth. If this sounds in any way dry, I assure you that it is not. Allen comes up with a clever story about hypocrisy, injustice, and privilege in Victorian society. Its characters are very much alive. 

I really did want Herbert Le Breton to die.

As a first time novelist, Allen's greatest fault lies in his reliance on introspection... needless introspection... pages of needless introspection.

Pages.

The novel's greatest fault belongs to publisher Andrew Chatto, the same man who encouraged Allen to try his hand at writing fiction. This 1883 letter gives some indication of the pressure Allen experienced (I've blacked out a few bits so as not to spoil):

Dear Mr. Chatto,

Many thanks for your letter of hints about my unfinished novel. "Philistia" is certainly a very taking title, and I shall be very glad to adopt it. If you want to announce the novel in your programme for the "Gentleman's" (as I suppose you will), I think it had better be under that name.
As to not killing Ernest le Breton, I hardly see how one is to get out of it. To me, it seems almost the only possible end. If you feel very strongly that readers won't allow him to be killed, I will try to find some other alternative, but it will be difficult to manage. If one made him recover or get on well in the world, then there would be no dénouement, and, as a matter of character, I doubt whether such a person ever "would" get on well. However, I shall be guided by you in the matter; and if you think it indispensable that Ernest should live, I will try to work out another conclusion. I intended from the first that Ronald should marry Selah; and if Ernest doesn't die, there is no reason why Lady Hilda shouldn't marry Berkely.
Yours very faithfully,
Grant Allen.

Not since reading Ronald Cocking's Die With Me, Lady have I seen a novel of such promise fall apart so completely. A great shift begins in 'A Gleam of Sunshine,' the thirty-third of the novel's thirty-eight chapters. Here the realistic turns fantastic. The dying character referred to in Allen's letter to Chatto is made healthy, and achieves great fame and wealth; his wife is saved from widowhood. The final chapter brings news of two impending marriages.

As a result, I came away from Philistia feeling so very, very sad. 

Trivia I: Righty or wrongly, Allen has been credited or blamed for having come up with "he looked deeply into her eyes." Unsurprisingly, the line occurs in the novel's final chapters:

Bending over towards where Hilda sat, he took her hand in his dreamily: and Hilda let him take it without a movement. Then he looked deeply into her eyes, and felt a curious speechlessness coming over him, deep down in the ball of his throat. 

Trivia II: The novel's working title was 'Born out of Due Time.' It was Andrew Chatto who suggested Philistia.

I think we can all agree that it is the better title.

Object: "A NEW EDITION" published two years after the author's death, my copy was once part of Boots Booklovers Library. I'm not sure how to read this label, pasted to the rear endpaper.

Someone may be able to enlighten.

I purchased the book in 2018 from a British Columbia bookseller. Price: US$35.00.

Access: Philistia first appeared in 1884 numbers of The Gentleman's Magazine under the pseudonym "Cecil Power." Later that same year, it was published by Chatto & Windus in a three-volume edition.

The 1888 Chatto & Windus "cheap edition" can be read online here thanks to the Internet Archive and Emory University. The cover illustration is interesting in that it depicts a scene featuring Rupert and Selah, two minor characters:

As I write this, no copies of Philistia, in any edition, are being offered online.

Remarkably, Allen's 1883 letter to Andrew Chatto may be purchased as part of a small collection that also includes a copy of The Woman Who Did inscribed by the author to Andrew Lang.

My birthday is in August.

Related post:

Dope Rings in Canada! Oh, My!

Getting to Know the Woman Who Did

Unpleasant Verse for New Year's Day

THE SCATTERED FAMILY ON NEW YEAR'S DAY

Though mountains and forests and waters divide us,

Where fate and ill-fortune have led us to stray;

Though infidel strangers are living beside us,

Our hearts will together be dwelling to-day.

Aglow with affection, with vivid love burning,

In fancy, dear parents, to you we will flee;

From North, from the West, from above, where no mourning

Embitters the joys of the blest and free.

We hasten, dear parents, our homage to render,

Our hearts as our treasure lay at your feet,

And proofs to convince of our reverence tender,

To beg for your blessings at home's sweet retreat;

To think of the scenes of our innocent childhood,

Where, happy, contented, not dreamed to care,

We roamed through the valleys, the meadows and wildwood,

To view the fair blossoms then flourished there.

'Tis true that our hearts often linger around you,

From morn until evening when bound by sleep' schain,

Then dream of the cords of love to us that bound you,

And sigh to return when it frees them again.

To-day shall they linger more constant than ever,

Around our loved parents, around our loved home;

No thoughts of the world for a moment shall sever

Our hearts from that spot, or from there make them roam.

What prospect to children, to parents more pleasing,

Than that we this union might share!

In filial love be united unceasing,

No matter what fate or our foes may prepare.

'Tis true not on earth, for we'll soon be dismembered:

Shall death in the good love of others destroy

Can bliss then be reining and home unremembered?

Away with such motions of heavenly joy.

from Poems and Essays

John J. MacDonald

Ottawa: Ru-Mi-Lou, 1928

Related posts:

'Welcoming the New Year' by Arthur Weir

'A January Morning' by Archibald Lampman

Agnes Maule Machar's New Year's Wish (& mine)

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

A Poet Laureate's 'Prayer for the New Year'
Decades-Old Verse for the New Year by E.J. Pratt

Temperance Verse for New Year's Day

An Old Poem for the New Year by Arthur Stringer

Immature Verse for the New Year

A New Year

Dustiest Bookcase: S is for Slater (not Mitchell)

The Dustiest Bookcase:

Short pieces on books I've always meant to review (but haven't).

The Water-Drinker

Patrick Slater [John Mitchell]
Toronto: Thomas Allen, 1937
149 pages

I read Patrick Slater's The Yellow Briar a few months after moving to southern Ontario. Our new neighbours and friends had read it in school. Another friend, Michael Gnarowski, was preparing a new edition for Dundurn's Voyageur Classics series. Copies were plentiful in our newly adopted corner of the country. It took little effort, little time, and less than thirty dollars to amass a nice little collection of various editions. The new Dundurn edition set me back twice as much as the others combined. 

l-r: the 1933 Thomas Allen edition, the 1963 Macmillan edition, the 1966 Macmillan edition, the 1970 Macmillan edition, and the 2009 Dundurn edition.

My lazy pursuit was encouraged by clippings left by former owners. These were found between the pages of one of the two Thomas Allen copies I own:

I really liked The Yellow Briar, but can't quite remember why. Wish I'd posted a review on this blog. I didn't because these new neighbours and friends were so familiar with he book; it didn't seem neglected or forgotten. As years passed, I realized that the offspring of our new friends and neighbours – closer to me in age – knew nothing of Patrick Slater and The Yellow Briar. 

Slater wasn't really Patrick Slater but a lawyer John Mitchell. The Yellow Briar, sold by the author and his publisher as a memoir, was a hoax. As hinted in the headline of a clipping above – 'Author Who Jailed Self In Spite of Crown Dies' – Mitchell was a troubled soul. This photograph suggests as much:
 

The image comes from yet another clipping – this one from Saturday Night – which I found in the pages of my copy of The Water-Drinker.

Published four years after The Yellow Briar, The Water-Drinker is a collection of verse coming from a man who'd previously published only prose. It begins with a twenty-one-page introduction in which Slater/Mitchell offers a mea culpa, before expounding on literature, poetry, growing old, and purse picking. The thirteen poems that follow are interrupted by nine colour plates featuring paintings by F.H. Varley, Paul Kane, Cornelius Krieghoff, and Maurice Cullen, amongst others. A tenth illustration – uncredited – appears only in black and white:

Might it be by the poet himself?

My copy, purchased in 2010, once belonged to Louis Blake Duff (1 January 1878 - 29 August 1959). It appears to have been a birthday gift, presented on his sixtieth birthday:

Duff was the author of several books and chapbooks, most having to do with the history of southern Ontario. A respected local historian, his death was noted by William Arthur Deacon in the pages of the Globe & Mail:

Dr. Duff deplored what he called the booklessness of Canadians, their disinterest in literature. As a passionate bibliophile – his own library contained 10,000 volumes – he could not help but be depressed by this characteristic which he considered a national trait.

My copy of The Water-Drinker was one of Dr Duff's 10,000 volumes.

It set me back all of $2.50.