Monarch was captured and brought to San Francisco in 1889 as part of a publicity stunt for William Randolph Hearst's Examiner, the "Monarch of the Dailies". His first four years in the city were spent in a cramped cage at an amusement park; it wasn't until 1894 that he was lowered into that concrete pit at Golden Gate Park. The bear lived over 22 years in captivity. After he died, Monarch was stuffed and mounted, and became part of a diorama replicating California's flag.
Today, the Bear Flag Republic has no bears, but you can still see Monarch – or what's left of him – at the California Academy of Sciences. Take the kids!
I wonder whether Delaware has a similar display for their flag.
It wasn't until reading up on Bannertailthat I learned of Japan's attraction to things Seton. This pales beside the idolization of our beloved Anne Shirley, of course, but it is out there... and has been for some time. Manga adaptations go back to the years preceding the Second World War; there's even a biography of the man, illustrated by the very talented Jiro Taniguchi. Anyone looking for further evidence that the Seton name holds weight in Japan need only consider the title of that horrendous cartoon featured in the previous post: Seton Animal Chronicles: Banner the Squirrel. It was just one of three Japanese animated series based on Seton's work.
The first, Seton Animal Chronicles: Jacky the Bearcub, was inspired by Monarch, the Big Bear of Tallac, a novella published by Charles Scribner's Sons in 1904. It's about a... Oh, why not let Seton's images carry the story.
Jacky, a bear cub, is orphaned after a hunter shoots his mother in the brain.
He's adopted by the hunter, who takes delight in his antics.
Jacky's sold to a crazy rancher who keeps him in chains.
He grows into adulthood, escapes, and feasts on lamb.
Shepherds fear Jacky, who they refer to as Monarch.
The hunter who adopted Jacky/Monarch all those years ago fails to capture him.
A second attempt is successful. The bear ends his days in captivity at Golden Gate Park, "seeking forever Freedom's Blue, seeking and raging – raging and seeking – back and forth, forever – in vain."
Monarch – or Jacky, if you prefer – did exist; that's him above. Though Seton took some liberties with the story of his early life, the bear lived his final years in a concrete pit, just as the author describes.
Everything is happier in Seton Animal Chronicles: Jacky the Bearcub because the bear never grows up. His fun filled days are spent with sister Jill, a Native American boy named Lan, and Lan's Grandpa Rocky (best not to dwell upon the incident in which Rocky killed Jacky and Jill's mother).
That third animated Seton series? Well, it appears to have been a grab bag of Seton stories, including a retelling of Monarch, the Big Bear of Tallac. The animation, a touch more sophisticated, depicts the author communing with his cartoon pals.
An aside: Remember that Miami bookseller who was selling all those print on demand copies of Bannertail? Well, he's listed a POD copy of Monarch, the Big Bear of Tallac at US$145.95. "Perfect Condition", he claims. I recommend the 106-year-old first edition, which is readily available for less than US$20.
A sharp-eyed friend sends this photo of The Queers of New York, spotted a few days ago in a Toronto used bookstore. Can't say I'm tempted – not at $50 – though I do appreciate the effort. Leo Orenstein's 1972 novel is, I believe, the most sought after Pocket Canadian Paperback Original. Easy to understand why. Who couldn't use a book that features both gay and Yiddish glossaries? For now, I'm happy just to see the cover, which Orenstein himself provided. Not bad.
When I first learned of this novel back in February, I made a bit too much of the fact that Orenstein directed Chekhov, Ibsen and Shaw – pretty much every director working in the early days of CBC television did much the same. The only film the man directed was Have Figure, Will Travel, a low-budget travelogue about three young women who sail a luxury yacht from staid Canada to nudist colonies in the United States.
Orenstein was far more active as a producer than a director, putting together one-off television dramas by names like Ted Allan, Hugh Garner and Arthur Hailey. For the most part, these appear to have been well-received, though this 25 May 1966 Globe and Mail review by Dennis Braithwaite is worthy of note:
I don't see how we can put all the blame on Barry Morse for what happened on Show of the Week Monday night. Morse is an actor and therefore by definition a ham: give any actor his head, free him from all directorial restraints, say to him. "Do as you like, have a ball." give him a plot so sketchy and inane that it can't possibly by hurt, turn him loose on the set with a make-up box and a drawing account on the wardrobe department, close your eyes and ears to the results, and – well, if you saw It's Murder, Cherie, you know what will happen. Leo Orenstein produced this show; I want that information prominently displayed.
Could it really have been as bad as all that? Does anyone remember? I ask because it wasn't long after this review that Orenstein stopped working as a producer for the CBC. In fact, this man who had been there right from the medium's earliest days seems to have left television entirely. He returned only briefly, directing two episodes of The Starlost, CTV's 1973 science fiction series. Here's the beginning of the first, "Lazarus from the Mist":
By Canadian standards it was a pretty big deal, though no one seems to have noticed. After the devastating 1966 Braithwaite review, Orenstein's name didn't appear again in our newspaper of record until he died in February of last year. He was eighty-nine.
An aside: An "audacious television concept" says star and pitch man Keir Dullea. Those with who bask in nostalgia and young folks wondering what all the fuss was about may find the Starlost promo to be of interest.
John Lovell was born two hundred years ago today. The most important Canadian publisher of the nineteenth century, I suppose he's best remembered for his directories, much valued by genealogists, but his contributions to the country's literature should not be overlooked. The man published Mrs Leprohon, François-Xavier Garneau, Joseph Howe and Charles Sangster, as well as Moodies Susanna and John. Lovell's Literary Garland was not only the first magazine of its kind in British North America, it paid.
Then there are the illustrated books. Today,Hunter's Eastern Townships Scenery, Canada East (1860), William Notman's Portraits of British Americans (1865) andCanadian Wild Flowers (1869) by Catharine Parr Traill, cannot be had for anything less than four figures. More modest in intent isLovell's Advanced Geography for the Use of Schools and Colleges (1880), which features some very beautiful images of Canada, convincing evidence that the Earth is a sphere and one truly cringe-worthy illustration.
It's been a while since I've seen a proper copy of Lovell's Advanced Geography on offer.The only current listings come from booksellers flogging print on demand abominations. Here's one from the UK, UK:
Black and white, no illustrations... What sort of dog's breakfast, one wonders, will OCR software vomit forth after scanning these pages:
The mess that is the bookseller's description probably provides a clue.
An advert published twenty-five years ago this month in Books in Canada finds McClelland and Stewart under the sway of the "computer evangelicals of Apple Canada Inc." I had no idea such people existed. Could it be that I was out when they came to call? My first computer, bought the following year, was a PC. I've since seen the light.
Nine decades ago, Frank L. Packard was giving Stephen Leacock good chase for position as Montreal's bestselling author. Today, his novels are all but forgotten, but I'm not so sure they're forgettable. Populated by con men, gangsters, faith healers and dope fiends, they look to be gritty, entertaining summer reading. I'm betting that each is more fun than his rival's Hellements of Hickonomics.
I've been meaning to give Packard a read for some time now – say, two decades – but where to begin? No one I know has read the man. W.H. New's Encyclopedia of Canadian Literature is of no help; it's entry consists of just two sentences, including: "Packard practiced as an engineer."
All is to explain how it is that I came across this very peculiar Abebooks listing:
So, we're meant to believe that the man who wrote both Pawned and this book...
also acted in this...
and is the same Frank Packard who directed this...
which was originally released as this...
a few months after his hundredth birthday.
...
"Obviously a joke", said my wife.
"But the seller is a member of the ABAA. They do have standards... and a Code of Ethics."
"No, it must be a joke. It's so over the top."
"But—" And it's here that I realized it doesn't matter nearly so much as our need for a new eavestrough.
A writer, ghostwriter, écrivain public, literary historian and bibliophile, I'm the author of Character Parts: Who's Really Who in CanLit (Knopf, 2003), and A Gentleman of Pleasure: One Life of John Glassco, Poet, Translator, Memoirist and Pornographer (McGill-Queen's UP, 2011; shortlisted for the Gabrielle Roy Prize). I've edited over a dozen books, including The Heart Accepts It All: Selected Letters of John Glassco (Véhicule, 2013) and George Fetherling's The Writing Life: Journals 1975-2005 (McGill-Queen's UP, 2013). I currently serve as series editor for Ricochet Books and am a contributing editor for Canadian Notes & Queries. My most recent book is The Dusty Bookcase (Biblioasis, 2017), a collection of revised and expanded reviews first published here and elsewhere.
