Awful Allens

Further to Tuesday's post. The cover of the Leadenhead Michael's Crag might not be as attractive as Rand McNally's (above), but is it not more interesting? "MR. GRANT ALLEN'S NEW STORY 'MICHAEL'S CRAG'" suggests.... what? Great anticipation? A long wait? Neither would have been true; even as Michael's Crag appeared, the author's next novel, The Scallywag, was being serialized in the weekly Graphic. What's more, it followed hot on the heals of Ivan Greet's Masterpiece etc. (1893), a collection of new and recently published short stories.

Allen was a busy man – in his opinion, the busiest in England – before dying of "liver related problems" at the grand old age of 51, he'd published seventy books. I know of only two that are in print today, The Woman Who Did and The Type-writer Girl, both fine scholarly editions from Peterborough's Broadview Press. These and nearly all the others are available from various print on demand firms. With few exceptions, they appear such nasty things, particularly when placed next to their Victorian counterparts. Compare, if you will, Ferro's 1896 edition of A Bride from the Desert to that offered by print on demand publisher BiblioBazaar.

Let's ignore the line-wrap and focus on the image. Intriguing, isn't it? What, one wonders, does a bamboo forest have to do with something titled A Bride from the Desert? The answer is, of course, nothing. The photo is one of several that BiblioBazaar places on their books. Look for no rhyme, consider no reason. Here the same photo is used on Allen's Flowers and Their Pedigrees (1884).

So, what we have is a cheap POD publisher with a set number of stock images. I get it. But is it not odd that BiblioBazaar uses two of these images, both appropriate for A Bride from the Desert, on their editions of Allen's Venice (1898)?

Ah, yes, Venice, the desert wasteland. BiblioBazaar also offers two different editions dealing with that maritime city we call Paris.

Lest anyone think I'm picking on BiblioBazaar, I end this rant by pointing to this beauty from England's General Books. Though I've never seen the first edition, I'm willing to bet a considerable sum that it is a far sight more attractive than this:

Related posts:
Wings of Delusion
What? No Tutis?

Wings of Delusion

Michael's Crag

Grant Allen

London: Leadenhall, 1893

194 pages

This review, revised and rewritten, now appears in my new book:

The Dusty Bookcase:

A Journey Through Canada's

Forgotten, Neglected, and Suppressed Writing

Available at the very best bookstores and through

Biblioasis, Amazon, Chapters/Indigo, and McNally-Robinson.

Related post:

Awful Allens

The Messy World of Ronald J. Cooke

The House on Craig Street

Ronald J. Cooke

Toronto: News Stand Library, 1949

158 pages

This review, revisited and revised, now appears in my new book:

The Dusty Bookcase:

A Journey Through Canada's

Forgotten, Neglected, and Suppressed Writing

Available at the very best bookstores and through

Biblioasis, Amazon, Chapters/Indigo, and McNally-Robinson.

Victoria Day Poetry Disaster

Poems of James McIntyre (Ingersoll, ON: Chronicle, 1889)

Returning to James McIntyre – for the final time, I think – this poem inspired by the 1881 capsizing of the Victoria. The horrific event took place 129 years ago today, by sad coincidence Victoria Day, on Canada's River Thames, just outside London, Ontario. It remains one of the country's greatest maritime disasters, and like so any of the others was entirely avoidable. One likes to think that with current regulations such a thing could not happen. Perhaps. But on 24 May 1881, no law prevented a poorly-designed paddle-wheeler from accepting 600 passengers, 200 more than capacity. The captain, Donald Rankin, seemed able; he recognized the vessel was in trouble. His attempt to beach the Victoria was thwarted by a race that had begun by two members of the London City Rowing Club. Enthusiastic spectators rushed starboard to watch, the boiler rolled off its mount, the upper deck collapsed and hundreds of passengers were thrown in the river.

All took place within 30 metres of shore, yet at least 182 people died – infants and children who couldn't swim, ladies who were pulled to the riverbed by their long, heavy dresses.

The loss of life approached one percent of the population of London.

It was Victoria's 62nd birthday. She sent her condolences.

Related posts:

A Civil Servant's Awful Victoria Day Poem

Queen Victoria and He

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

A Dutch Treat

De Venusberg [Under the Hill]

Aubrey Beardsley and John Glassco [Werner Cranshoff, trans.]

Amsterdam: Uitgeversij de Arbeiderspers, 1971.

Related post: Canada's Olympians (Part II)

From the Public Library to Mine

There will be some unpleasantness.

This past week I spent a few hours volunteering at the semiannual St Marys Public Library book sale. 'Twas good work for a worthy cause. No gems, I'm afraid, though there were many deals to be had. And then there were the unwanted books that were shed in the library's most recent cull. Fifty cents. There were few takers.

Library discards are great for reading in the bath, at the beach or while eating spaghetti, but unless particularly rare they have no place in a decent private library. I count the number of discards I own on one hand: there's a British first of Flappers and Philosophers, a Canadian first of Morley Callaghan's 1929 A Native Argosy, a signed first of Radclyffe Hall's The Master of the House and that inscribed copy of Laure Conan's The Master Motive. These last two come from Montreal's sadly missed Fraser-Hickson Library. Neither book cost more than fifty cents. I'd have gladly paid more.

My most recent ex-library acquisition, Edwin Lanham's 1937 novel Banner at Daybreak, was bought six years ago for use in researching the forthcoming Glassco biography. A veteran of the Butte County Free Library, it was at some point defaced by a pessimistic, Old Testament teetotaler.

That's right, a pessimistic,

Old Testament

teetotaler.

Mercifully, ex-library books are a pretty rare sight in used bookstores, but they do litter the web. Anyone looking to buy a Canadian first of Marian Engel's 1968 debut No Clouds of Glory, as I was yesterday, must take care not to step in the five discards found amongst the 17 copies currently offered online. The most expensive of these comes from a Hamilton bookseller who asks US$50 for something described as "Mild ex-library". "Very Scarce", he adds. Compare this to another, untouched by librarians, listed online for one dollar less: a Fine copy in Fair dust jacket, signed by the author (who died in 1985).

Very Good copies of Engel's novel hover around US$20, roughly the same price being asked by those flogging ex-library copies. "Rebound in sturdy library binding", one vendor says of his discard. Tempting. The cheapest of these library refugees – US$16.95 – is described as follows:

Longman's Canada, Toronto, 1968. Hard Cover [sic]. VERY GOOD+/VERY GOOD- First Edition (stated), 1st Canadian Printing. A gorgeous ex-library copy: exceptionally clean and tight, all pages FINE. DJ in mylar, the ring stain on the front panel is part of the book's graphic design. First novel from this award-winning Canadian author. Written with piercing wit, poignant satire, and eloquence, this book established Marian Engel as an uncommonly gifted writer.

The concluding sales pitch is irritating and ill-advised, but what I really take exception to is the description. "A gorgeous ex-library copy"? Ain't no such thing – but then the same the bookseller uses adjectives like "beautiful", "handsome", "superb", "excellent" and "exceptional" in describing his many other ex-library offerings.

A "VERY GOOD+" book in "VERY GOOD-" dust jacket with "FINE" pages. Are we to assume that the ink on those pages is AS NEW?

Too harsh? Perhaps, but does this really fit anyone's definition of gorgeous?

Glassco en français

The recent publication of Daniel Bismuth's new French translation of Memoirs of Montparnasse is as welcome as it is unexpected. I believe I'm right in saying that Glassco's masterpiece now holds the distinction of being the only English language Canadian book to have been twice accorded the treatment. Comparisons are unavoidable. Of the two translations, I think Bismuth's Mémoires de Montparnasse, is the superior. This is no slight against Jean-Yves Soucy, whose Souvenirs de Montparnasse appeared in 1983 – Bismuth is a translator, Soucy is a writer.

Equally gifted in both fields, Glassco was a rare talent. He translated close to two hundred French language poems, including all of Hector de Saint Denys-Garneau's verse (then struggled for years to find a publisher). Garneau's Journal was Glassco's first translated book. In later years, he returned to prose, bringing into being English language editions of Monique Bosco's La Femme de Loth (Lot's Wife), Soucy's Un Dieu chasseur (Creatures of the Chase) and Jean-Charles Harvey's Les Demi-civilisés (Fear's Folly).

He lived to see his books translated into Dutch and German, but not French; Soucy's Souvenirs de Montparnasse was published two years too late. Nearly all the French translations published during Glassco's lifetime are found in the 1974 Alain Grandbois/John Glassco issue of ellipse. It's here that we see the very earliest translations of Memoirs in excerpts taken on by Sylvie Thériault and Marc Lebel. The same issue features four translated passages from Harriet Marwood, Governess.

Dutch and German readers have been enjoying Harriet and Richard's love story for nearly four decades. Here's hoping M Bismuth will consider Harriet Marwood, Governess for his next project.

An aside: That's not Glassco on the cover of Mémoires de Montparnasse. Library and Archives Canada holds several photos of the author that were taken during his Montparnassian adventures, yet none have been featured on the now six cover treatments. Another missed opportunity, I'm afraid.