A Record That Speaks for Itself

Election day in Ontario. If the pollsters are correct, the Liberals may just hold onto power – a near impossibility mere months ago.

I don't write much about politics here, but things do creep in from time to time: the fabulations of Preston Manning, the oeuvres of senators Wallin and Frum and our prime minister's non-existent, yet much-hyped hockey book. There's been more, of course, but those who know me will agree that I've demonstrated considerable restraint.

Returning from the polls today with politics on my mind, thoughts turned to Wilfrid Laurier. I remembered that 1911 was the year in which the great statesman finally stepped down as prime minister. Had I missed the centenary?

As it turns out, the sad event took place 100 years ago this very day.

The Globe, 6 October 1911

A result of this:

The Globe, 22 September 1911

Not exactly a dark day in Canadian history, but most certainly one on which things dimmed.

A Ninteenth-Century What's Bred in the Bone

What's Bred in the Bone

Grant Allen

London: Tit-Bits, 1891

Two Canadian writers, both with strong ties to Kingston, Grant Allen and Robertson Davies each wrote novels entitled What's Bred in the Bone. I remarked on this in Character Parts, but don't see that anyone else has thought it worth the ink. Not even Judith Skelton Grant's massive biography, the 787-page Robertson Davies: Man of Myth, mentions the curious connection.

Perhaps I make too much of this. Davies was attracted by the neglected past, and had an appreciation of the peculiar, but he never exactly dwelled on Allen in his own writing. In fact, the Kingstonian's name appears only once in Davies' published work. The mention – fleeting – is found in "Canadian Literature: 1964", an essay that was written when Fifth Business was no more than a gleam in author's eye: "...if a Canadian novel is not a novel written in Canada by a resident of the country, what is it? There were a few, like Sara Jeannette Duncan, who wrote of the land they knew, and achieved reputation; others, like Grant Allen and Gilbert Parker, were Canadians by birth but Englishmen by choice."

Allen's What's Bred in the Bone is very much an English novel. At its core are Cyril and Guy Waring, identical twins of uncertain parentage and independent, if modest means. Cyril, a landscape painter, is our hero; he shows his stuff very early in the novel by saving the life of beautiful Elma Clifford after a railway tunnel collapse. Guy, much the weaker figure, is under the influence of Montague Nevitt, a London bank clerk. Nevitt uses his position to bet on sure things in the stock market, pressuring his friend to likewise. When one investment goes sour, the clerk exercises a near hypnotic influence over Guy, getting him to commit forgery in "borrowing" £6000 from his brother's account.

How handsome Cyril came to have such a large sum, though believable, is very complicated. The same might be said for much of What's Bred in the Bone; hidden marriages, mistaken identities and multiple misunderstandings carry the plot. It says much about Allen's talent that no matter how tangled the web, the reader is never confused. This particular reader was caught up in it all, curious as to how everything would unfold, racing toward what was ultimately an overly melodramatic conclusion.

What's Bred in the Bone was written was an eye on a prize; that being £1000 offered by the English weekly Tit-Bits for the best serial story. If the magazine's hype is to be believed, the novel won out over 20,000 entries. However, the strive for the commercial was not nearly enough to hold Allen's quirkiness in check. No surprise here – we are, after all, considering the work of a man who would one day write a novel about an elderly civil servant who believes himself to be the archangel Michael. I focussed at first on the twin brothers; they were so much alike, had both experienced a toothache "in the self-same tooth on the self-same night" and each had dealt with the problem in the very same way. But Guy put an end to this early on: "There's nothing of the Corsican Brothers sort of hocus-pocus about us in any way. The whole thing is a simple caste of natural causation."

The freaky comes out of left field when prim, proper and virginal Elma retires to her bedroom after her escape from the tunnel. Her bosom heaves, her heart beats violently and she feels "a new sense aroused within her." She begins dancing wildly, rhythmically, and yet this release does not satisfy. "She hadn't everything she required for this solitary orgy", Grant tells us. "Her hands were empty. She must have something to fill them. Something alive, lithe, curling, sensuous... Cyril Waring! Cyril Waring! It was all Cyril Waring. And what on earth would Cyril Waring think of her?"

The cause of Elma's behaviour is not so obvious; the reader soon learns that a "Roumanian ancestress" has passed on an attraction to snakes, and Cyril has a pet snake, and... well, maybe it is obvious.

Trivia: In 1916, the novel was adapted for the silent screen as What's Bred in the Bone Comes Out in the Flesh.

More Trivia: What's Bred in the Bone was published in England, the United States and Denmark (Hvad i Kodet er baaret, 1893), but only once in Canada, when in 1911 Winnipeg publisher Heimskringlu issued Ættareinkennið, an Icelandic translation. A century later, it remains the only Canadian edition.

Object: An odd-looking, yet attractive hardcover, the slightly fragile first edition disappoints only in that it, like all subsequent editions, features no illustrations.

Access: Print-on-demand monstrosities all but overwhelm online listings. Seek and ye shall find a few copies of the first edition going for about $100. The Toronto Public Library and just four of our universities have copies – of any edition – in their collections. Three copies of Ættareinkennið, all offered by the same Winnipeg bookseller, are currently listed online at an even US$300 each. No Canadian libraries hold copies.

Six Exits to Shrewsdale

John Buell's The Shrewsdale Exit was translated into the French by Jean-Patrick Manchette, the very same man who adapted the novel to film. It appeared first in 1973 as Sombres vacances, number 1596 in Gallimard's Série Noire. Anyone familiar with the series will understand why I'm not bothering with the image. L'agression, the movie tie-in published two years later, is much more attractive – that is, after all, Catherine Deneauve on the cover.

The novel did quite well in France, but nothing like Germany, where it went through no less than six different editions. Titled Highway, the not-so-great image below captures the very first, published in 1973 by Bücherbund. A Skull and Crossbones, an Iron Cross, a Star of David and what might be something from Star Trek – these bikers might be bad, but they don't discriminate.

While most German covers focus on the bikers, this 1975 edition seems to have been inspired by the novel's final peaceful pages.

Published in 1974, Salida de autopista (Highway Exit), the first Spanish language edition, sticks with the tried and true, while reimagining the evil bikers as daredevils and Vikings.

In 2007, long after the book had again gone out of print in English, a Polish language edition appeared out of nowhere. Titled Czarne wakacje (Black Holiday), its cover depicts a scene that is foreign to the novel.

Interesting to note, I think, that it's the Americans who have stayed truest to the novel. The Farrar, Straus & Giroux first edition was followed by this mass market paperback from Pocket Books.

The bikers are just as Buell describes them. An anonymous cover artist picks up on their number – three – in the 1984 Carroll & Graf reissue.

It would seem that the novel has never published in Canada, the author's home and native land.

Related post: Where is Catherine Deneuve?

Where is Catherine Deneuve?

The Shrewsdale Exit

John Buell

New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1972

Read the book, see the movie. Always thought that was the way to do it, so I have only myself to blame for spoiling The Shrewsdale Exit. Buell's third novel, it begins blandly – intentionally so, I think – with a family vacation:

They ordered sandwiches and beer, a Coke for the little girl, and were served in good time. They weren't in a hurry. They were going to the coast, to work their way along the ocean, camping where possible and staying in boarding houses when necessary. They talked as they ate, and in a short time they were about finished.

Within an hour – it could be two – mother and daughter are raped and murdered by a motorcycle gang. The father is left for dead, but is really only knocked out. Things move quickly in this novel; six weeks follow, during which the man buys a gun, plugs the thugs, is sent to prison and escapes into a world of pastoral beauty.

I'm spoiling things here, but not nearly as much as my reading experience was spoiled by the 1975 movie adaptation, L'agression, posted on YouTube:

Jean-Patrick Manchette's screenplay moves the action from somewhere (but not anywhere) in the United States to southern France. Buell's unwashed, wild bikers appear as efficient, faceless contract killers – characters in conspiracy. Jean-Louis Trintignant is cast as the vengeful husband and father, playing opposite Catherine Deneuve, who brings beauty and talent to the role of Sarah.

Sarah?

Sarah is not in the Buell's novel. In fact, not a word or action from la déesse de l'amour features in the book. Silly me, turning the pages I kept expecting her to appear.

I'm placing too much blame on the film. The Shrewsdale Exit is a weak novel with a strong start; the shift from the mundane to the violent is jarring, horrific and uncomfortably real. But when our hero enters prison plausibility passes, and the sure hand that wrote The Pyx and Four Days becomes shaky. In the third act, it brings us as close as I ever want to get to a Jeanette Oke farm. It's no coincidence that L'agression draws on the beginning, and only the beginning. But don't see the movie, read the book... the first 166 pages, at least.

Trivia: The L'agression soundtrack was written, in part, by Robert Charlebois (who also plays a biker). I offer this brief sample:

The very music that made the Sex Pistols seem so very attractive.

Object: A hardcover with green cloth boards with a bland dust jacket by Larry Ratzkin. The English Angus & Robertson first edition cover image trades the green road sign for blue, but is otherwise identical.

Access: The Farrar, Straus & Giroux and Angus & Robertson editions received no second printings, though there were a couple of subsequent editions in mass market paperback: Pocket (1973), Carroll & Graf (1984). I've yet to find evidence that it was included in the 1991 HarperCollins Canada trade paper reissues of Buell's novels. Canadian library users are encouraged to visit their university libraries. As far as public libraries go, only that serving the suffering residents of Toronto satisfies. As always – well, nearly always – Library and Archives Canada fails.

Because enquiring minds want to know... (Part II)

My most valuable book (I think).

My favourite book (I know).

Because enquiring minds want to know... (Part I)

Not really dusty... and more than one.

Ronald J. Cooke, No Blockhead

A final follow-up to last week's post on The Mayor of Côte St. Paul. Promise.

Cover copy describes Ronald J. Cooke as "one of Canada's most popular writers of realistic fiction". Don't you believe it. The man never wrote anything that could be considered "realistic fiction". And, let's be honest, he was never popular. Like The House on Craig Street, his first novel, The Mayor of Côte St. Paul was a paperback original – and, like his first novel, it was printed only once in this country. Readers were left hanging nearly three decades before they saw The House on Dorchester Street, the third (and final) Ronald J. Cooke novel. Who published this much-anticipated work? A vanity press located in Cornwall, Ontario.

While I expect that Cooke sold at least a few short stories in his time, I've come across only one: "Beginner's Luck", which was appeared in the August 1950 edition of Atlantic Guardian:

The wordsmith wrote several pieces for this self-described "Magazine of Newfoundland", most having to do with those who'd achieved success far from its shores. Makes sense – owned by a Montreal company, Atlantic Guardian was run out of offices on Toronto's Bay Street. The July 1950 issue, which would have hit news stands at about the same time as The Mayor of Côte St. Paul, contains an all too clever little piece on Cooke by Associate Editor Brian Cahill.*

That lady with the gams and the megaphone is Canada's Sweetheart Barbara Ann Scott, by the way.

Never mind, here's Cahill:

An inside joke certain to send subscribers scratching their heads, it's based on the idea that Cooke was well on his way in book-writin'. And why not? The House on Craig Street was published in 1949, The Mayor of Côte St. Paul followed in 1950. However, eight years passed before the next Cooke book – a tale for children titled Algonquin Adventure (Ryerson, 1958). An even larger gap followed, only to be broken in 1979 by How to Write & Sell Travel Articles. A self-published guide, at 29 pages it's not quite right to describe it as a book... more a booklet. Others came in rapid succession, all emerging from Cooke's basement in suburban Montreal. My favourite is the suggestively titled 20 Ways to Make Big Money with Your Camera, but most deal with making big bucks through writing: Tips for the Beginner in Self-Publishing & Mail Order! (1980), How to Write & Sell Short Articles (1981), Tips on Writing and Selling Romance Novels (1985), How to Publish & Promote Your Own Writing (1986), Here's How to Write and Sell Features & Fillers to Newspapers and Syndicate Your Own Work, Too (1986), and Self-Publishing and Mail Order Made Easy (1988).

Dave Manley would approve.

* A subject of personal interest, Brian Cahill may or may not have been married to journalist Marion McCormick (even her children aren't sure) the second wife of John Glassco.

Related posts:

A Blockhead Tries Writing for Money

Write Short Stories the Dave Manley Way!

Write Short Stories the Dave Manley Way!

A follow-up to Tuesday's post on The Mayor of Côte St. Paul.

A friend asks why Dave "proudly" shows Cherie his stacks of rejected manuscripts. "Shouldn't he be embarrassed?" Not at all. Dave knows that he needs just one breakout story before the rest will sell – valuable info gleaned from a lecture by "the great novelist" Robert Patterson:

Paterson had explained how he'd written nine books – had them all rejected. Then wrote the tenth and had it accepted with much horn-blowing. Then he had promptly retired and merely doled out his rejects at the rate of two a year. All of which were accepted and made money.

"Those stories are like money in the bank", Dave tells his girl. And so, he keeps at it, churning out two each and every week. Dave shares his method with Cherie:

"I regard a story like a game of cards – poker for example. Only in writing a story you have all the cards in your hand before you start. You can make up your own hands. The beginning is probably the most important. Writers call it the narrative hook. Introduce a character and then place him in a difficult position, sort of a tough spot. After that the writer is just as anxious as the reader to see what happens, to see if he can get out of the jam and lick the problem. The characters usually take control and the writer just writes whatever the characters suggest. I guess that's about all there is to it."

We're later treated to a scene in which we witness Dave in action. It begins with my very favourite sentence from the novel:

"I wonder if there's any mail?" wondered Dave. He started to rise from his chair, then he sat back. "I'm just looking for excuses," he cried. "Why the devil is it that writers will search for any excuse to keep from writing. We put it off till the last possible minute, but once we do get started there's no stopping us. Ideas! Ideas! That's what I need!" He glanced around the room to see if he could spot anything which would act as a starter. He wanted to do a short detective story for the Weekly Advocate. The editor had said he was interested. The rate was only $25, but he'd get more kick out of getting $25 than from $250 from run-running.

He shivered in the cold grayness of the room and started tapping the typewriter keys idly. His gaze fell on the camera on the bureau and without thinking he typed a line, "The Clue of the Missing Camera."

Then he started typing, at first slowly, then with a steady staccato as his ideas took shape. He finished the first paragraph and then read it, "Mark Graydon removed one gloved hand from the wheel of the car and patted the small German camera in his pocket – he had the evidence – nice and clean as you please. His fat, beefy face broke into a smile. He glanced out at the foggy shoreline where a twinkle of lights marked the outline of the village. Lightning racked the sky and pelts of rain as sharp as bullets whipped against the windshield, suddenly..."

Dave continued his story. Impervious of the darkening room, and the increasing coldness of his surroundings.

The Mayor of Côte St. Paul ends before Dave has a chance to send out "The Clue of the Missing Camera", so we never know whether it's his breakout story. Somehow, I doubt it.

Related posts:

A Blockhead Tries Writing for Money

Ronald J. Cooke, No Blockhead

A Blockhead Tries Writing for Money

The Mayor of Côte St. Paul

Ronald J. Cooke

Toronto: Harlequin, 1950

"No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money", wrote Samuel Johnson. But is not one who persists in writing for money, without achieving a single sale, also a blockhead? The question – unintended, I assure you – lies at the heart of this, Ronald J. Cooke's second novel. Like his first, The House on Craig Street (1949), this is a tale of a struggling writer living in Depression-era Montreal. Our new hero is Winnipeg boy Dave Manley, who arrived in the city thinking that its rich atmosphere would inspire his short stories. Sadly, the seventy or so produced in the eight month since have brought nothing but a steady stream rejection notices.

Fortune both smiles and frowns when he spots a tall and leggy blonde walking at a furious pace along St Catherine Street. Dave follows her for a block or two before realizing that he's not alone:

"Time for you to check out, old boy," he said.

Dave's not talking tough to his fellow stalker, but to himself.

"You've got no business being interested in the dame. You're a struggling free-lance writer, remember. You haven't got time for dames – besides you're broke. And dames, particularly ones like that one ahead cost dough. And dough and you have no affinity. Turn your steps around bud – head back to Peel Street – buy a Star and go home.

"Nuts," thought Dave. "Editors tell me that I'm not selling my stuff because there's no life in it. Maybe this is a real life plot that'll shape into something profitable."

It doesn't matter so much that Dave is broke; turns out the leggy dame – Cherie is her name – made fistfuls of cash working for an underworld kingpin called the Mayor. "But I kept my skirts clean – no street-walking for me", she's quick to add. Now Cherie wants out. Her dream is to open a lingerie shop in little Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Cherie's escape, made with Dave's help, is remarkably easy. A lucky break. The Mayor is a sadistic psychopath – he murders by throwing darts, for goodness sake – but this doesn't stop Dave from working for him. You see, the writer is always on the hunt for new material. The way Dave figures it, "any character with as many ramifications as he has, is worth a story – maybe a dozen stories." It all turns out very badly, of course.

There's very little plot, "real life" or otherwise, in The Mayor of Côte St. Paul. Most of the book consists of Dave's persistent yapping, to himself and others, about the writing game, the writing life and ideas for the novels he's going to write. When the man does shut up, it's only so that he can listen to someone's life story, which he'll later mine for material. It's not that Dave has a passion for literature – he doesn't read – he sees it only as an easy way to make money. How frustrating then that what he calls his "stuff" doesn't sell.

As is usually the case with early Harlequins, the cover copy deceives. Sure, Cherie, "the girl from Lunenberg who had been learning about life since she was 16", intends to teach Dave what she knows, but does Dave want to know?

The first time she visits his flat, Dave welcomes her with a peck, before proudly showing off his stacks of unsold stories:

"Why don't you finish one job before you start another?" Cherie pouted.

"Meaning?" asked Dave.

"Meaning that you didn't finish that kiss."

"One is enough for me kitten," said Dave. "Your kisses are like dynamite – sort of rock me to my heels. After all, I'm just an ordinary guy – I'm no hero. And when a girl like you comes around it doesn't make it any easier."

"When I like a guy I like him," answered Cherie. "But you're the boss – if you don't want to kiss me it's okay."

"It's not that I don't want to kiss you," answered Dave, taking Cherie in his arms. "But you're so doggone feminine my head spins when you're in my arms."

"Just like a top, eh? said Cherie, running her fingers through his hair. "Okay, let's talk about your work."

And, as always, Dave does.

Blockhead.

Object: A typical early Harlequin. The cover image is sort of interesting. Cherie's hair doesn't seem quite right for 1931; I'm not sure about that typewriter either. The depiction of the Mayor – a slim man with sharp-chin, high forehead, "well-made" nose and eyes possessing "the type of glow one might expect to find belonging to someone who dealt in the occult" – is completely off.

Access: Only the University of Calgary, the University of Toronto and McGill University have copies. It's much more common online, where decent copies go for about twelve bucks.

Related posts:

The Messy World of Ronald J. Cooke

Write Short Stories the Dave Manley Way!

Ronald J. Cooke, No Blockhead

Of American Pirates and Canadian Counterfeiters

I received an email recently from a publisher who took exception to a post on pirated John Glassco titles at my other blog. "Hey there," he begins, "actually, we're not quite without permission on Glassco."

Not quite.

He then goes on to acknowledge that he "may be without permission" for one of the works in question. "Amazon won't carry it, and the thing was going for $500 used before I came along," he writes in defence.

You see, the man is performing a public service.

I stand by my words, which are supported by contracts and correspondence found in the Glassco fonds at Library and Archives Canada.

As I've not responded to this email, it seems unfair to identify this particular publisher.

Not responded?

Oh, I would have, but his concluding remarks rather rubbed me the wrong way:

Too bad you didn't contact me before. I have around 14k paying customers on the site, not to mention half a million visitors each month to —. Some of these readers might have been interested in your book.

He's referring here, of course, to A Gentleman of Pleasure, my new biography of Glassco. Well, I happily sacrifice any sales that I might have enjoyed in associating myself with this individual and his various ventures. One is, after all, known by the company one keeps.

No pun intended.

With the spread of POD technology and ebooks, it's hard to imagine that the problem of piracy won't grow, perhaps returning us to the turbulence and tumultuousness of earlier times. I'm reminded of poor Mark Twain, whose pocketbook took shots from Canada in a copyright war between the United States and the British Empire. In the end, of course, it was the writer who suffered the most.

Same as it ever was.

Twain wrote about his frustration with pirates – counterfeiters, he called them – in a 1 October 1880 letter to Congressman Rollin M. Daggett. The letter, with entertaining p.s., can be found online here at the Mark Twain Project.

Dear Daggett—
I want to go to Washington, but it ain’t any use, business-wise, for Congress won’t bother with anything but President-making. My publisher got me to send a letter of his to Blaine a month or two ago, in which our grievance was fully set forth. I didn’t believe Blaine would interest himself in the matter, & I was right. You just get that letter from Blaine, & cast your eye over it, & try to arrive at a realizing sense of what a silly & son-of-a-bitch of a law the present law against book-piracy is. I believe it was framed by an goddamd idiot, & passed by a Congress of goddamd muttonheads.
Now you come up here –that is the thing to do. I, also have Scotch whisky, certain lemons, & hot water, & struggle with the same every night.
Ys Ever
Mark

If you want to see how thoroughly foolish section 4964 is, just read it & substitute the words “U. S. treasury note” for the w “copy of such "counterfeit U. S. treasury note" for the words "copy of such book."
My books sell at $3.50 a copy, their Canadian counterfeit at 25 & 50 cents. If I could sieze [sic] all the Canadian counterfeits I could no more use them to my advantage than the Government could use bogus notes to its advantage. The only desirable & useful thing, in both cases, is the utter suppression of the counterfeits. The government treats its counterfeiters as criminals, but mine as erring gentlemen. What I want is that mime mine shall be treated as criminals too.

S L C

Thirteen decades later, it's still enough to make one reach for Scotch whiskey, certain lemons and hot water.

A Son's Lies My Father Told Me

Lies My Father Told Me

Norman Allan

Toronto: Signet, 1975

Back in May, I described novelizations of Canadian films as the rarest of things; I can think of only two, Whispering City and Lies My Father Told Me. This one is particularly interesting in that it was written by Norman Allan, son of novelist, playwright and screenwriter Ted Allan. We have here a son's version of his father's work.

Allan père did very well with this semi-autobiographical tale. What began as a short magazine piece, was adapted for radio, television, the cinema and, finally, the stage. Allan fis draws nothing from the original story – not so much as a sentence is similar – rather he follows his father's screenplay. Dedication is such that when the younger Allan does depart, as happens twice, one wonders whether he's not included a scene that was left on the cutting room floor. This is not to belittle his effort; the writing is tight and more than competent. The unabtrusive debut of a man who had never before published a work of fiction, it features some fairly strong imagery. Here David, the protagonist, races to feed his grandfather's horse:

I hurry along the balcony, three stories above the cobbled courtyard: three stories and a romance above Ferdeleh's stable there. A dozen dwellings, tenements of poverty, boxed and stacked: thirteen dwellings, counting Ferdeleh's, share the hemmed-in courtyard, their awkward wooden stairways sculpturing the skeletons of grotesque fairy castles. The gingerbread's all taken away, leaving only a matchstick grandeur...

I received Lies My Father Told Me as a gift back in 1976. In those dinosaur days – before Beta, VHS, DVDs and Netflix – novelizations such as these were pretty much the only way to revisit films. There were repatory theatres, of course, but I don't remember Lies My Father Told Me being offered. Television was as it is now: a crap shoot.

Jonathan Coe once described novelizations as "that bastard, misshapen offspring of the cinema and the written word". He's probably right – I agree with him on much else. But Lies My Father Told Me is the only novelization I've ever read... and I think it's pretty good.

Object: A very slim, mass market paperback with eight pages of stills from the film. Three pages of adverts provide much needed bulk. All movie-related, they range from an "exclusive movie edition" of The Three Musketeers to this biography of a hot star who had long ago gone cold:

The most interesting, I think, is the full-page push above for TV Movies.

"America's second largest indoor sport". How ribald.

Access: Six copies are currently listed online, five of which go for between one and six dollars. Only four of our university libraries hold the book – not one is located in Montreal. Patrons of public libraries are, predictably, limited to that serving the good citizens of Toronto. Library and Archives Canada fails yet again.

Related post: An Author Turns Thespian

Post-Apocalypse in Pink

The Lord's Pink Ocean

David Walker

New York: Daw, 1973

160 pages

This review now appears, revised and rewritten, 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.

A Final Word on Manners

The Ottawa Citizen

14 November 1953

Look familiar? What we have here is the Mind Your Manners publicity sheet from Monday's post reproduced word for word and passed off as a book review. The Ottawa Citizen seems to have been quite keen on promoting this guide; five months later, it devoted the better part of a two-page spread to 13 cartoons inspired by the book:

These cartoons show artist Peter Whalley's reaction to a new dictionary of etiquette written by Claire Wallace and Joy Brown and titled Mind Your Manners. Whalley's interpretations are fortunately not everyone's. The authors say they could only be Whalley's.

Mind Your Manners is the outgrowth of a column on etiquette which writer-commentator Wallace syndicated to 25 newspapers across Canada between 1945 and 1949. It was bought and published by Harlequin Books, of which Joy Brown is an editor. The first printing of 30,000 has been followed by a second and seems to justify the authors' belief that there was a need for a new simplified guide to Canadian manners.

The Ottawa Citizen

24 April 1954

It would not be considered proper behaviour, I suppose, to question the motives of the paper's editors. That said, I will point out that this latter piece also reads like a Harlequin press release. Let me leave you with that thought, along with a few sample cartoons and one final rule.

Related posts:
On Addressing a Duke's Eldest Son's Younger Son

More Manners Minding