A Merry Christmas to All

Bought for Its Beauty

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.

It's been some time since I criticized the less than reputable online booksellers, and even longer since my last real swipe at print on demand folk. Against the spirit of the season, I offer the following observations.

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.

Hanna-Barbera's Canadian Classic

This afternoon children across this country celebrate that moment of sweet liberation that is the beginning of Christmas Break. What better time to introduce them to the riches of our country's literature... and who better to do it than the minds behind The Jetsons, The Flintstones and, of course, The Herculoids.

The Last of the Curlews, adapted from Fred Bodsworth's 1955 novel, aired in October 1972 as the very first ABC After School Special. Beta, VHS and Laserdisc have all come and gone, and still we're waiting for the Hanna-Barbera folks to recognize and release this little gem. Thankfully, the whole thing has been uploaded to YouTube by someone who has confused Fred Bodsworth with John Dodsworth (Baron de la Ma de la Toulon in Singin' in the Rain).

Never mind. Just sit back, enjoy... and préparez vos mouchoirs.

Selling The Strange One

The Strange One

Fred Bodsworth

London: Sphere, 1979

Stumbled upon a couple of days ago, this very misleading UK cover treatment for Fred Bodsworth's second novel. There's very little passion in this book, and most certainly no "wild love", but what is more curious is the absence of the protagonist. You see, the "Strange One" isn't Kanina Beaverskin, the regrettably named young lady depicted, rather it's a Barnacle Goose. Readers of Bodsworth's 1955 debut, The Last of the Curlews, will not be surprised.

Much more honest is the dust jacket to the first UK edition, published in 1962 by Longmans Green. Here we see our hero in full flight. Kanina's small stature reflects her rather negligible presence in the novel.

An admission: Bodsworth's title always brings lesbians to mind. Those familiar with vintage paperbacks will understand.

Related post: Selling The Nymph and the Lamp

John Glassco: 100 Years

"I believe, actually, that birthdays should be dated from the moment of conception or fertilization, because that was undoubtedly a pleasanter occasion for everyone concerned."

John Glassco, letter to A.J.M. Smith, 27 Oct 1964

John Glassco was born at his parents' Montreal home one hundred years ago today. There are toasts to be made, of course, but I'm reminded that this was rarely a happy time of year for the poet. The birthday, followed so closely by Christmas, New Year's Eve and New Year's Day only served to remind him of the dreaded passage of time. In Glassco's final years, his wife, Marion McCormick, moved the day of celebration to 15 June.

Twenty-eight years after the man's death, reference works have come to record 19 December as Glassco's date of birth – an error that can be traced back to his entry in The Canadian Encyclopedia. I expect Glassco, that great practitioner of deceit, would have enjoyed the confusion.

Mystery at Beechwood Cemetery

Back in March, Jim Prentice introduced legislation recognizing Ottawa's Beechwood Cemetery as the national cemetery of Canada. Amongst other things, the preamble tells us that "Parliament considers a national cemetery to be a worthy final resting place for Governors General, Prime Ministers and recipients of the Canadian Victoria Cross." The bill passed easily, with little enthusiasm and no debate. It seems no one questioned how we'd managed for so long without a national cemetery, or why one was needed at all... and the matter of Canadian unity, given as a raison d'être for the legislation, was never raised.

I don't think I'm alone in thinking the concept a touch foreign (read: American). That Beechwood is a "worthy final resting place" cannot be disputed, but then the same can be said for a great many cemeteries in this country. I'll add that, given its location, it is a bit odd that 142 years after Confederation just one Prime Minister (Robert Borden) and one Governor General (Ray Hnatyshan) have been buried at Beechwood. Of our 94 Victoria Cross recipients, not one chose the cemetery as their final resting place. What effect the nudging of the 40th Parliament will have going forth remains to be seen.

Even in a country that tends to ignore its literature, I think more associate the cemetery with Archibald Lampman than Messrs Borden and Hnatyshan. Lines from the poet's "In Beechwood Cemetery" grace the entrance, and he is buried on its grounds.

In fact, with Wilfred Campbell and D.C. Scott, Lampman is one of three prominent poets at rest in Beechwood (their number greater than the PMs, GGs and VC recipients combined). I've never visited Scott's grave, but I have the other two. Both have distinctive memorials. Lampman's, a rock with his name cut in the side, is otherwise natural, while Campbell's is in the form of a bench. I've never sat on this memorial, for much the same reason I try my best to avoid walking on graves; I don't like the thought of my feet resting above someone's head. That said, I find it admirable... and wonder that it has fallen into such disrepair. Various lead letters have disappeared, likely due to weather, but the great shame is that its focal point, a medallion, is also missing. This is no recent disappearance. A friend, tells me that the piece was absent when he first visited the cemetery some five decades ago.

And so, a new project: to determine the design of the missing medallion and, with permission, have a replacement cast.

Any inkling appreciated... all tips pursued.

Related post:

Mistake at Beechwood Cemetery?

Hard Lessons in Publishing

Why keep flogging? Well, for one thing, I'm not so sure this horse is dead; the scandal surrounding Harlequin's Vintage Collection continues to spread. Scandal... not too strong a word, is it? After all, here we have a publisher that took six novels, tinkered with grammar and spelling, substituted phrases, removed any and all scenes it thought offensive, and then sold the results as being identical to the originals.

So, yes... scandal. And like any scandal, information trickles forth like the drool collected by Miles Copperthwaite. Today, an interview with associate editor Adrienne Macintosh: "The Inside Scoop on the Harlequin Vintage Collection".

There are no tricky questions here – the interviewer is a fellow employee – but taken with executive editor Marsha Zinberg's Harlequin blog post, it does provide a revealing glimpse into Harlequin's culture. We learn, for example, that only eight books were considered for the series, each chosen on the basis of cover alone. Something called Nine to Five by some guy named Harvey Smith was dropped because it was too long and boring, while Anneke de Lange's Anna... I'll let Ms Macintosh explain:

From the cover you might think the story was about... er, well, rolling in the hay. But that couldn't be further from the truth. Let's just say that the plot involves jealousy, hatred, physical abuse, rape, suicide, murder, racism, adultery, a couple of unwanted pregnancies and a mother so unlikeable that you are actually glad when she’s stabbed by her son. In any case, that one was nixed.

Ms Macintosh and Ms Zinberg each express ignorance of their company's origins, surprise at the grittiness of pulp fiction, make a big deal over having had texts retyped, and see considerable changes in our language:

Ms Zinberg: "Also, grammar and spelling standards have changed quite a bit in sixty years."

Ms Macintosh: "Grammar and spelling has [sic] also changed quite a bit in the past sixty years..."

We're informed, for example, that "loogan" is no longer in use.

Loogan?

Here's Philip Marlowe with a definition:

"What's a loogan?"

"A guy with a gun."

"Are you a loogan?"

"Sure," I laughed. "But strictly speaking a loogan is a guy on the wrong side of the fence."

These words come from The Big Sleep. I found them in Stories and Early Novels, the first in the Library of America's two-volume Raymond Chandler collection. Now, as a nonprofit publisher "dedicated to preserving the works of America's greatest writers in handsome, enduring volumes, featuring authoritative editions", Library of America is pretty well everything Harlequin is not. Recognition of this fact raises the question: Are we being too hard on this multi-national?

I don't think so. After all, each title in the Harlequin collection bears a message from its president and CEO stating: "it is such fun to be able to present these works with their original text and cover art".

It appears the Vintage Collection, which both editors thought would be such a simple project, became a burden because they encountered challenges only too familiar to those who work at other houses; little things like trying to track down copyright (at which they failed). In short, these editors were out of their depths; and still know not of what they speak. How else to explain Ms Macintosh's absurd assumption: "These are fifty-, sixty-year-old books. The authors have passed away".

RIP Mavis Gallant. RIP Farley Mowat.

Related posts:

Harlequin's Change of Heart

Covering Up the Past