RIP Joshua Slocum

Recognition this morning of Nova Scotia's Joshua Slocum, the first man to sail alone around the world. The mariner wrote about his adventure in the aptly titled Sailing Alone Around the World (1899), a travel classic still published around that same world, but not in his own country.

Slocum loved a good book and was a fervent reader, sometimes at his own peril. Here he is after departing the Cape of Good Hope on his good sloop the Spray:

The wind was from the southeast; this suited the Spray well, and she ran along steadily at her best speed, while I dipped into the new books given me at the cape, reading day and night. March 30 was for me a fast-day in honor of them. I read on, oblivious of hunger or wind or sea, thinking that all was going well, when suddenly a comber rolled over the stern and slopped saucily into the cabin, wetting the very book I was reading. Evidently it was time to put in a reef, that she might not wallow on her course.

It was one hundred years ago today that Slocum and the Spray set sail for the West Indies... and disappeared. Though an optimist, I don't expect we'll ever hear more from him. Slocum's end was probably pretty horrible – he never could be bothered to learn how to swim. No, much more pleasant to think that he simply drifted off while reading in bed.

Reverend King's Great War Novelette

Going West

Basil King

New York: Harper & Brothers, 1919

First published as a short story in the September 1918 issue of Pictorial Review, 'America's Greatest Woman's Magazine', Going West has nothing of the inflated style of The Inner Shrine. This appears to be such a rushed piece of work. Sentences are clipped, yet repetitive, and characters appear as incomplete and airy as the ghostly figures on the dust jacket. In the opening pages of The Inner Shrine, King writes of a few tense hours; in Going West, he covers an entire life and geneology.

A great-great grandson of a Revolutionary War veteran, the grandson of a Civil War veteran, the son of a Spanish-American War veteran, Lester is a "genial, jovial soul" who, without reservation, heads off to fight the Hun in the Great War. What's termed "irresistible fate" brings him face to face with a blonde Bavarian who has blue eyes that dance "with a kind of bloodshot fire". Lester dodges, prances, leaps and weaves, stabbing the enemy with his bayonet, but gets his face "all bashed in" just the same. Both men die.

In death, Lester finds himself not in heaven, but Oberammergau (site, perhaps uncoincidentally, of the Passion Play). His companion is not Christ, but the man he killed. Together they look over a woman and two children in prayer - the dead German's family.

Lester, it seems, has lived a life in which his thoughts were limited to the physical world; and so, unlike his enlightened companion, he is unable to "whisper" to his loved ones. He has not yet learned that all is "a matter of thought, of consciousness." The German provides guidance:

When we've learned that everything exists in a great mind, that mind itself becomes a medium of intercourse. Give up the idea that people you love live in one sphere and you in another. We all live together in one great intelligence that understands all our needs. Meet your needs not by your own efforts, but by co-operation with that intelligence, and what you want will be done.

What, I wonder, did the Anglican Church of Canada think of its retired reverend? This is a Spiritualist's story, one in which non-believers are as sceptical about the New Testament as they are about Ouija boards, one in which the living draw strength through a blanket of protection and love laid upon them by the departed. Coming in the weeks leading up to the Armistice, it all must have been most welcome.

Object: Slim, printed on heavy paper, Going West is a very handsome little book. A portion of the dust jacket image, features the comrades united in death, serves as frontispiece. Removing the jacket reveals a rather elegant cover. Quite a contrast, it serves to remind that the author was a minister of the cloth.

Access: Library and Archives Canada fails where the Toronto Public Library succeeds. Less than half of our university libraries have the book – a sign, perhaps, that King had come to be seen as an American author. Buyers should keep in mind that King was quite popular... and the Basil King collector appears to be an extinct creature. Prices vary greatly. One crazy Connecticut bookseller is asking US$150 for a copy that is no better than those going for US$20. "Unusual to find a copy of this book in this condition [Very Good] with a DJ", claims another asking US$45. In truth, it's more unusual to find a Very Good copy without a dust jacket. Pay no more than US$20, dust jacket included.

Remembrance Day

Remembering Peregrine Acland

Peregrine Palmer Acland

(1891-1963)

As Remembrance Day approaches thoughts turn to Peregrine Acland, whose Great War novel, All Else is Folly, I wrote about back in March. A very fine work, praised by Ford Madox Ford, Bertrand Russell, Frank Harris and our own war-time prime minister Sir Robert Borden, of all the out-of-print books read this past year, this is the one I would bring back. It remains a mystery to me that this novel has been so neglected.

One might make a similar statement regarding the author. Very little has been written about Acland, much of it sketchy and inaccurate. The biographical note that accompanies We Wasn't Pals, the Great War anthology edited by Barry Callaghan and Bruce Meyer, lists no dates of birth or death, and mistakes his only other book, the poem The Reveille of Romance, for a novel.

Once a newspaperman, Acland's own writing has him in Alberta working as a cowboy before the war – an unlikely occupation for a the son of the Deputy Minister of Labor. Greg Gatenby's remarkable Toronto: A Literary Guide, tells us that after the war Acland worked as an ad man in New York and Toronto, and was a member of Mackenzie King's private staff during the Second World War. A Torontonian, he died in the city of his birth, having lived the final years of his life in an apartment at 100 Gloucester Street.

I can't claim to have done any real research on Acland myself, though I did seek out his Attestation Paper – easily done through Library and Archives Canada. I've also come across a a smattering of wartime writing published in the Globe and Pearson's Magazine, along with the above photo, which was used in a McClelland and Stewart advert for All Else is Folly. The scarring almost certainly comes from the severe wounds he received during the Battle of the Somme, and is similar to that suffered by his protagonist Alec Falcon.

Acland was awarded the Military Cross; his "conspicuous bravery at the front" was reported in the dailies. The novel drawn from his experiences was published in three countries, received glowing reviews, and soon went out of print. What recognition has Acland received since? After the adverts for All Else is Folly had run, his name disappeared from the Globe and Mail, the newspaper for which he'd once worked; even his death went unreported. It's all so shameful, really.

Update: Field Punishment No. 1 reveals that the Globe and Mail did indeed report on Peregrine Acland's death, succeeding where this blog failed. Once again, it seems that I've been let down by the Globe and Mail search engine.

Related post:

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