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.