A Civil Servant's Awful Victoria Day Poem

To be honest, I really dislike this year's verse to Victoria, choosing it only as an excuse to post this wonderful photograph of the poet's wife done up as Britannia. The Grand Fancy Ball was the occasion, held 23 February 1876 at Rideau Hall by Frederick Hamilton-Temple-Blackwood, 1st Marquess of Dufferin and Ava, 3rd Governor General of Canada.

Historians tell us that the evening it was a glorious success. The Library and Archives website informs that his lordship's was for two decades "the standard by which similar balls were measured."

I don't doubt it. Few balls near the size of Dufferin's.

(cliquez pour agrandir)

Careful study finds Britannia near the front of the crowd. I wonder, is that the poet standing next to her?

As is so often the case with fancy dress, the women steal the show. I find Miss M. Skead, seen above and below with Diana's bow, particularly attractive.

For obvious reasons, I have a bit of a thing for Miss Richards, en costume as "The Spirit of the Press".

But the woman who has my heart is Mme Margaret de Saint-Denis Le Moine as "The Dominion of Canada".

The 24 February 1876 Ottawa Free Press, reports that Mme St-Denis Le Moine wore "a while satin skirt, gold tunic, arms of the Dominion, embroidered on its tablier, surrounded with a wreath of maple leaves; flag of the Dominion, worn as a scarf, festooned on one shoulder, with a gold beaver; cornet of gold, small British flag in the hair, earrings and ornaments."

Be still my heart.

And so I arrive, at long last, at the poem. What I dislike most about this piece of untitled verse, found in The Canadian Birthday Book, is its very Britishness. Nothing Canadian about it. Gather round ye French and Irish, let us sing the praises of Victoria and the true hearts warmed by British blood. I make some allowances for the fact that our poet, Gustavus William Wicksteed (1799-1898), was born and bred a Liverpudlian. At the time of the Governor General's Grand Fancy Ball he was serving as a law clerk in the House of Commons.

Enjoy… or don't. At times I prefer photographs to words.

From The Canadian Birthday Book

Seranus [pseud. S. Frances Harrison]

Toronto: C. Blackett Robinson, 1887

Related posts:

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

Coke Adds Death (where there isn't any)

Pure Sweet Hell
Malcolm Douglas [pseud. Douglas Sanderson]
Greenwich, CT: Gold Medal, 1957

After two chapters I picked up pen and paper to do some figuring. As far as I can determine, Pure Sweet Hell was Sanderson's ninth novel, coming less than five years after Dark Passions Subdue, his queer, lavender-tinged debut. Some might not find this impressive. In the 'nineties, V.C. Andrews averaged better than two books a year. And she was dead.

Pure Sweet Hell was the first Sanderson since Dark Passions Subdue to have had neither a British edition or French translation. This I don't get, because it ranks with Hot Freeze as one of his very best.

Like Hot Freeze, the novel's plot revolves around the drug trade. In place of Mike Garfin, ex-RCMP, we have Anthony Bishop, current FBI, who has been assigned to investigate cocaine traffickers at work in the Mediterranean. The G-man arrives in an unnamed Spanish port, trawling through its busy streets and bars like a sailor on shore leave… which is his cover. The faux-seaman's jacket pocket holds two Lucky Strikes packs filled with cocaine. The Bureau's idea, which isn't really much, is that Bishop will sell the drugs, then follow the white lines to the local kingpin. Things get off to a bad start when his contact, a fellow FBI agent and old friend, dies from a knife to the back.

Pure Sweet Hell was published just seven months after Final Run, Sanderson novel #8. Both take place over the course of a single night. Of the two, Pure Sweet Hell is by far the superior; it rings true in a way that its predecessor does not and the writing is stronger:

He wouldn't go under. The darkness was black glue. I couldn't see to punch him scientifically.

Sanderson can always be relied upon for a good fight scene, and there are a dozen or so here. You can also expect some very memorable characters. I've said it before and I'll say it again, Sanderson's people are anything but types. My favourite here is live-wire whore Pepita, who having won the lottery enjoys a night off.

Those unfamiliar with Sanderson will find Pure Sweet Hell a pretty good entrance to his work – which isn't to say that it's without flaws. The final chapters are heavy with explanation, a wasted effort to tie up ends that are already entwined. I never quite understood what the FBI was doing in the Mediterranean. But my greatest complaint, which may seem silly, concerns concussions. Four of the novel's twenty-four chapters close with Bishop losing consciousness – three times from blows to the head delivered after a good beating.

At the end of it all, when the bad guys are all dead or locked up, shouldn't he be checked over by a doctor or something?

Trivia: Sanderson's unnamed Spanish town is Alicante, in which he lived for much of the latter half of his life. Bishop's night of adventure begins at La Goleta, a restaurant that exists to this day. Call 34 965 21 43 92 for reservations.

Object: A slim mass market paperback comprised of 143 pages of dense type. The cover art is by Barye Phillips, the man responsible for the very best cover to John Buell's second best novel.

His cover illustration for Pure Sweet Hell isn't quite in the same league. That's meant to be a drunken Pepita, except that Sanderson describes her as wearing a vivid orange dress. She'll later don her best frock. If the author is to be believed, no Spanish woman of the time would've be caught wearing red slacks. He has one policeman note, as if "about to share a dirty secret", that "in the United States the ladies they wear the trousers like the men."

Phillips also provided the cover of Brian Moore's pseudonymous Murder in Majorca.

Seems he liked drawing blinds.

No pun intended.

Addendum: The back cover copy to Pure Sweet Hell is so bad that it needs be addressed.

One of the novel's great strengths lies in Bishop's narration. Where Sanderson's G-man is sharp and a straight shot, Gold Medal's copywriter makes him out to be a tiresome braggart. The Bishop of the book would never claim that half of town was out to get him or brag that "two dazzling dames" fought over him "like dogs over a bone". Neither is true. "I tell you it was a damned energetic night" just isn't his voice – nor is this:

Just call me Pied Piper Bishop, legging it furiously through town for my life, while out behind me streamed an assortment of cutthroats – followed by a blonde and a brunette – both magnificently heaving.

Call you Pied Piper Bishop? Thanks, I'd rather not.

Access: At US$4.50, the cheapest copy of the first edition listed online comes from a crook in Tulsa who has the gall to charge US$30 for shipping. At the other end we have a Near Fine copy being sold by a Massachusetts bookseller for US$20. Add in his shipping charge and it'll still cost you less than the one in Oklahoma.

Beware, in 1960 Gold Medal went back for a reprint, something a good many of the listings fail to mention.

I recommend the 2004 Stark House edition, which not only pairs Pure Sweet Hell with another favourite, Catch a Fallen Starlet, but includes an insightful Introduction by John D. Sanderson, the author's son. Thrilling Detective's Kevin Burton Smith provides even more context. The cover painting is by Alicantina artist Marina Iborra.

Stark House has no Canadian distributor – buy it from the publisher!

Not a single copy of any edition is held in a Canadian library.

Edward G. Robinson Gets His Man

The coming reissue of  James Benson Nablo's The Long November has had me watching the films made from his stories. There were four in all, shot between 1953 and 1958, starring big names like Mickey Rooney, Edward G. Robinson and Victor Mature. Pretty impressive for someone who died six or so years after his arrival in Hollywood, don't you think?

Writing here four years ago, I described A Bullet for Joey, the second film made from a Nablo story as "god-awful". I haven't changed my mind. Still, I enjoy the movie, if only because it takes place in Montreal. A Bullet for Joey wasn't filmed in the city but at the RKO-Pathé Studios in California's Culver City. Lazy director Lewis Allen is content with stock footage, beginning with this establishing shot taken from Mount Royal.

…then blows it by cutting to an apartment building unlike any I've seen in Canada, outside of Vancouver.

We'll learn later that this is not an apartment building at all but a hotel… in a residential area… without signage… or a doorman.

Nuclear scientist Dr Carl Macklin, played by George Dolenz (Mickey's dad), emerges to greet a monkey and organ grinder.

Then he exchanges pleasantries with the friendly neighbour RCMP officer, in ill-fitting, faux-uniform.

The organ grinder will kill the officer as the monkey watches.

Enter Edward G. Robinson as Raoul Leduc, the RCMP inspector tasked with finding the murderer.

Note the portrait of Queen Elizabeth and the two maps of Canada. Allen may have been lazy, but set designer Joseph Kish was busy as a beaver placing STOP/ARRET signs, RCMP coats of arms and maps wherever possible. There are a lot of maps.

You've got to give Robinson credit for not falling into the trap that claimed Laurence Olivier in 49th Parallel; the actor never even attempts a French Canadian accent. He sometimes falters – Quebec is "Kweebec" – but for the most part his is a reliable performance; I was most impressed by the actor's ability to deliver lines like this with straight face: "An organ grinder? That early in the morning?"

You can hardly blame Robinson for his mispronunciations; the only Canadian I recognize in the credits is Henri Letondal, and the two share no scenes. Who was gonna set Rocco right?

Letondal plays a farmer who is being used by a foreign cabal to get a gangster into the country.

"Welcome to Canada, and to freedom Mister Steiner."
"Mister Dooboys?"
"Dubois. Your sponsor."

That's George Raft as the gangster. He's been offered $100,000 to kidnap Macklin. Next thing you know it's old home week, with his crew descending on the Dubois farmhouse from Havana, Mexico City, Chicago and Los Angeles.

At this point the film loses focus with the would-be kidnappers posing as surveyors, factory workers and moonstruck lovers, all in an illogical effort to get close to the nuclear scientist. Although not shared with the audience, it appears that at some point the decision is made to steal the very project on which Macklin is working. This part of the movie is pretty boring, but pays off in one dynamite headline:

James Benson Nablo can't be blamed for this mess; it is his story, not his script. No Canadian would write dialogue like this:

     "Two mornings a week Mr Macklin teaches physics at McGill University. He dines either at the club or the hotel."
     "What kind of a club?"
     "The one to the faculty he belongs. After dinner he usually plays chess."
     "Chess?"
     "An intellectual game you wouldn't know about. When the weather is fine he plays golf – two or three afternoons a week. If it isn't, he goes up to Mount Royal to ski or skate."

Montrealers will find it funny.

Everyone will wonder why the movie features no character named Joey.

What Nablo himself thought about it all I haven't been able to discover.

Related posts:

The Mysterious Mister Nablo

Nablo in Hollywood

N is for Nablo News
The Last of James Benson Nablo?

Romance Amongst the Racists

The Window-Gazer
Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1921

Lured by the offer of lodging, Great War veteran Prof Benis Harrison Spence has left his aunt's altogether too busy Ontario home for the quiet of coastal British Columbia.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Spence is burdened by several ounces of shrapnel and a nervous disorder, both souvenirs from his time at the Front; rest is just what the doctor – physician friend John Rogers – ordered.

Unfortunately, host Herbert Farr turns out to be an unstable, unlovable charlatan. The man's home is nothing more than a leaky, albeit spacious, cottage shared by daughter Desire and Chinese servant Li Ho. Spence has no sooner arrived when he collapses from stress placed upon his shrapnel-filled leg. Weeks pass, during which the professor is nursed back to health by young Desire.

Make nothing of her name.

Theirs is a platonic relationship with a foundation formed by shared interests and outlook on life. Neither cares much for marriage – "a hideous thing," says Desire. Spence proposes just the same as a means of freeing his newfound friend from her crazy father's clutches. Believing the professor to be the sort who will one day find true love, Desire declines. The quick thinking Spence comes up with a sad story about losing the love of his life, a blonde girl named "Mary", to another, which leads her to reconsider. After all, the professor is not a man to "love twice."

The pair run off to Vancouver, are married, and share a chaste working honeymoon in separate tents on fictitious Friendly Bay. They soon settle in Bainbridge, an Ontario town beset by blonde Marys.

Canadian Bookman, February 1922

Recounting the plot doesn't quite do this novel justice. On the surface, The Window-Gazer is a simple romance, without the cocaine addiction, opium addiction, kidnapping and worker exploitation that are key to previous Mackay novels. The unpleasantness lies below in the twin veins of race and racism that run through the book. The reader will spot this first in Spence, who is studying the "primitive psychology" of Indians. The professor is sitting with Desire when he encounters his subject for the first time:

"A Jap?" exclaimed Spence in surprise.
     "No. He's Indian. Some of the babies are so Japaneesy that it's hard to tell the difference. Father says it's a strain of the same blood."

Spence's aunt allows that she doesn't mind having her luggage handled by Pullman porters, but she does worry that her nephew's new bride might be part Indian. Her concern is shared by the gentile ladies of Bainbridge. "Well, if Indian blood can give one a skin like hers, I could do with an offside ancestor myself!" one writes in a letter.

And then we have Li Ho, who is described by a less than honest boatman as "one of the Chinkiest Chinamen I ever seen." For much of the novel, Farr's servant appears as a stereotype out of… well, something published early last century. He speaks in a manner that will make today's reader cringe – "Me much glad Missy get mallied" – only to be revealed as the most intelligent of Mackay's creations. Indeed, he is the one character to really display character. In the end, Li Ho proves to be the hero of the novel, a fact ignored by reviewers of the day.

I wonder why?

About the title:

When I was younger and we lived in towns I used to wander off by myself down the main streets to gaze in the windows. I never went into any of the stores. The things I wanted were inside and for sale – but I could not buy them. I was just a window-gazer. That's what I am still. Life is for sale somewhere. But I cannot buy it.

Object: A 308-page hardcover bound in blue cloth. The design was shared with the American edition published by Doran. I've not seen a dust jacket for either. I purchased my copy for $3.75 last December from a London bookseller

Access: The Doran and McClelland & Stewart editions enjoyed just one printing each. As might be expected, Library and Archives Canada has neither. Does Interim Librarian and Archivist Hervé Déry care? Perhaps not – after all, the man is an economist, not a librarian or  archivist. Anyway, his position is only interim; it's been only a year since James Moore appointee Déry took over from disgraced James Moore appointee Daniel J. Caron. What's the rush?

Twenty-eight copies of the McClelland and Stewart edition are held by Canadian libraries, though only the Toronto Public Library and Vancouver Public Library serve the… um, public.

Eighty-one copies are listed for sale online, but seventy-seven of these come from print on demand vultures. As is invariably the case, they provide some amusing covers. Tutis has a good one, but my favourite comes from Read How You Want, which not only changes Desire's gender and transports her to Paris, so that she/he might to look over the Rue de Miromesni.

Not one of the other four copies has a dust jacket. At US$25, the cheapest is a Good copy of the Doran edition. Next up in terms of price – US$35 and US$47 – are two passable copies of that issued by McClelland & Stewart.  The Vermont bookseller with the absurd prices is trying to flog a "discoloured from damp" signed copy of the first edition – whether Doran or McClelland and Stewart he does not say. Either way, at US91.98 it is horribly overpriced; no one is much interested in signed Mackay's – except, maybe, me.