The March of the White Guard
Gilbert Parker
New York: Ferro, 1902
Does it not seem appropriate that Gilbert Parker's true first name was Horatio? His was, after all, an Algeresque life. Here we have a man, the son of rural Ontario storekeeper, who rose to become one of England's most powerful MPs. Parker was knighted by Edward VII, received a baronetcy from George V and became a member of the Privy Council; all while penning novels and short stories that made him one of the popular writers of his day.
I don't know that I've ever met anyone who has read anything by Sir Gilbert. Perhaps my great-grandparents did... who knows where their libraries ended up. This copy of The March of the White Guard was purchased seven years ago in a Vancouver bookstore. The price – one dollar – tempted, but what sealed the deal were W.E.B. Starkweather's illustrations. Artwork extends beyond endpapers and plates to elements that decorate each page, making an otherwise bland read an enjoyable experience.
What an anonymous 1902 New York Times review describes as "a stirring tale of life and adventure in the Hudson Bay district" begins hundreds of miles to the west with the receipt of a letter addressed to the Chief Factor of Fort Providence. Rose Lepage writes in desperation that her husband, Varre, has gone missing while exploring the Barren Grounds. Enter contemplative sub-factor Jaspar Hume, who shows considerable character and bravery in agreeing to lead what seems a futile rescue party. The reader's estimation of Hume grows considerably after a lengthy monologue (below), which Hume addresses – uncharacteristically, we're told – to his faithful dog, Jacques.
The next morning Hume sets off with a crew of four misfits: slow Scotsman "Late" Carscallen, Métis Gaspé Toujours, the perpetually grunting Cloud-in-the-Sky and Jeff Hyde, the bully of Fort Providence. Together they are the White Guard; so named for their decision to dress in "white blanket costumes from head to foot".
The modern reader will wonder that this was ever considered appropriate attire for a northern rescue party. Sure enough, the panorama of snow, ice, sun and white blanket costumes overwhelms, bringing on snowblindness, and very nearly felling Hume.
Most of The March of the White Guard takes place north of the 61st parallel during deepest winter, a landscape and time rendered with considerable skill by the appropriately named Mr Starkweather. Strange then, that the cover features five dandelions. Are these in some way meant to represent the five members of the White Guard? Dying weeds shedding seeds? I just don't get it.
Access: Common and cheap, Very Good copies of the 1901 first edition – as above, but with tawny boards – can be had for under US$10.
The cover of the Dodo Press edition features a summertime scene in which two buckskin-wearing men stand in a deciduous forest, while that of Read How You Want reproduces a painting of an unidentified cardinal. Both are just as mysterious as Starkweather's (though I will acknowledge that Parker twice refers to Gaspé Toujours as a "Papist").
Sadly – and inexplicably – the always interesting firm of Tutis Digital Publishing does not include The March of the White Guard amongst its sixteen Parker titles. That said, their cover treatments of Sir Gilbert's other works do not fail to entertain. My favourite is Tutis Classics' Michel and Angele, a historical romance of two Huguenot lovers during the reign of Elizabeth I. (Over at Caustic Cover Critic, JRSM points to the company's use of the same image on a couple of Jack London books.)
Kessinger Publishing always plays it safe by slapping on covers reminiscent of a no name corn flakes box. The company couples The March of the White Guard with The Trespasser, presenting what is, in effect, the eighth volume of the 23-volume Works of Gilbert Parker. For US$65.17, an American bookseller will happily sell you a "Brand New", "Never Used" copy identical to that which Amazon lists for US$21.24.
Merry Christmas, ExtremelyReliable of Richmond, Texas.
Update: Martin W kindly points out that the "unidentified cardinal" on the cover of the Read How You Want edition is actually Pope Innocent X, as painted by Diego Velázquez.
A recent post by the ever informative Bookride has my rolling eyes turning to Alphascript Publishing, its bastard brother Betascript and the numerous other imprints being spewed forth by VDM Publishing of Saarbrücken, Germany. While other POD publishers prey on works that have become public domain, Alpha and Beta target Wikipedia articles. They're not alone. Books LLC, for example, offers things like Canadian Alliance Mps [sic]: Preston Manning, Vic Toews, Maurice Vellacott, Stockwell Day, Dick Harris, Jason Kenney, Diane Ablonczy, Rahim Jaffer, an ugly 56 pages of material written by such authorities as Snickerdo, Headbomb and Duffy 2032.
As I say, a lesser effort, though Tutis does offer two different covers. The first appears to depict Felix and Muriel windsurfing their way to freedom. Bit of a mistake there – they actually leave by lifeboat, courtesy of a gun-toting sea captain – but I wonder whether the second, placing Felix in Conan the Barbarian gear before the frigid, snow-covered mountains of Polynesia, is any better.
Of all our authors, Tutis appears to have a particular problem with Ralph Connor. Their cover for The Man from Glengarry (1901), the story of a lumberman working the Ottawa River, features a futuristic warrior floating above an arid landscape. Here they move Connor's novel of the Great War, The Sky Pilot in No Man's Land (1919), from the battlefields of France to the waters off 21st century Manhattan.
In Tutis Universe, the soldiers of The Bastonnais (1877), John Lesperance's 'Tale of the American Invasion of Canada in 1775-76', are deprived of their firearms and must fight with swords and daggers. On the other hand, one side – the Americans, I'm guessing – has been given lovely lavender blouses as part of its uniform.
The first edition of Charles Mair's Through the Mackenzie Basin: A Narrative of the Athabaska and Peace River Expedition of 1899 (1908) may not feature a distinctive cover, but it does reflect the time. Mair isn't much read these days. Will the image of a large truck travelling through a landscape that is clearly not the Athabaska spur sales? I have my doubts.
I've taken more than a few swipes at print on demand publishers. And why not? The industry has yet to complete its second decade and already these firms are responsible for a great percentage of the ugliest books in existence. Blurred scans, scored texts and missing pages only add to the unpleasantness. However, much was forgiven today – if only temporarily – after I happened on the latest post by J.R.S. Morrison at his always interesting Caustic Cover Critic blog. Mr Morrison brings to our attention English POD publisher Tutis Digital, whose covers feature the most bizarre pairings of title and image I have ever seen.
A quick visit to the company's website brings photographs of Jacques Cartier's nuclear submarine, the Samurai War between Canada and the United States and the tropical paradise that is Quebec. I present the following without further comment, adding only that Tutis offers an alternate edition of The Backwoods of Canada, one that features a handsome cover image of the majestic mountains of Peterborough, Ontario.
