Horler, They Say, For Excitement

Some twenty-odd years ago, in a Hospital League of Friends shop, I bought a second-hand book, simply because of the legend on the spine, ‘Fillets on the Menu, by John Hague (pseudonym of a famous author)’. I found both the title and the authorship intriguing. It was the first and possibly only edition, published in the 1930’s. After assiduous internet searching, I have finally found the identity of John Hague. The name, and in parts the style, suggest Ian Hay, but the introductory notes hint strongly that the author is a woman. In fact, the author was Ursula Bloom.

The book itself is a portmanteau of stories of the various residents in a genteel boarding house in the 1930’s, and there is a hint at the beginning that it was written for a bet between Bloom and her husband, who considered their fellow-guests too dull to be the subject of a novel. The stories are told in a rather lightweight style (hence my original suspicion of Ian Hay), but contain some dark and grisly material. To sum up, it is an interesting curiosity, and I could not be bothered to reread it.

At the back of the book, there are some thirty-odd pages of puffs for other books from the same publisher, and these eloquently bear out the cliché about the past. They are written in a style which at the time was presumably racy, but to a modern reader they are a trifle clanking: ‘From the very outset, when Milton Byrnes plunges overboard into the shark-infested sea, Mr Delmont’s new novel provides a rapid succession of thrills.’ Also, some of the books described sound absolutely dreadful. When one thinks how difficult it is (and was then) for a budding writer to find a publisher, it occasions some surprise to see in print, ‘The Book of Watermanship’, by Sid G Hedges (author of The Book on Swimming and Diving)’, and ‘The Notorious Mrs Gatacre and Other Stories’, by The Baroness Von Hutten (author of Pam, Pam’s Own Story etc)’.

Before we have a good laugh at some of the blurbs, let us remember where we come from. I spent a considerable portion of my childhood in Cowdenbeath Public Library, which was housed in the Miners’ Welfare Institute. The shelves were lined with low- to middlebrow books, the spines of which I still remember. The rustic brandishing his pipe in an aggressive manner on Jeffery Farnol’s Another Day, the weathercock atop the clock tower on Variable Winds at Jalna, by Mazo de la Roche. Twenty years later, I was being shown round the house where DH Lawrence was a child, and the curator pointed out the view of the Mansfield moorland in the window, quoting, ‘It is the country of my heart.’ Well, Cowdenbeath library, with the strong smell of paper and floor polish, and the books by Farnol, Heyer, de la Roche and all the rest of the gang, is the country of mine. So the following should be seen as affectionate amusement rather than supercilious contempt.

There is a nice line in portentous hyperbole. Of Witch’s Cauldron, by Eden Phillpotts (author of Bred in the Bone, etc), it is stated, ‘The assertion that Bred in the Bone would achieve for Eden Phillpotts what Tess of the d’Urbervilles achieved for Thomas Hardy seems hardly to have been an exaggeration.’ Really? For other volumes, the blurb writer acknowledges that the acclaim is not unanimous. The summary of Knights of the Moon, by JM Denwood (author of Red Ike), begins, ‘Heralded by some as a writer of literature and a novelist of the first order, condemned by others as a compiler of trash and bunkum, JM Denwood...’ It would seem to be Make Your Mind Up Time.

There are some marvellous titles, particularly among the books of travel and reminiscence. Clifford Collinson has given the world Life and Laughter ‘Midst the Cannibals, VC Buckley contributes With a Passport and Two Eyes, and Paul Schebesta gives us Among Congo Pygmies and Among the Forest Dwarfs of Malaya. Mr Schebesta appears to have a morbid interest in ethnic groups of short stature. I am not so sure of the existence of some of these peoples. I went to a wedding in Ipoh in 1985, and I didn’t see any forest dwarfs. Another irresistible travel memoir is Laughing Through the Orient with Ole Bill, by Bruce Bairnsfather. I suspect the reader does less laughing than the author. Second Innings, by Country Vicar is not a religious tract but a book of cricket reminiscences. Hold me back. According to the summary, Country Vicar has been acclaimed by the press as ‘The Modern Pycraft’. So there you are.

Incidentally, this reminds me of another observation. Popular (in the sense of aimed at the mass of people, rather than of being in great demand) religious books from the early twentieth century do not tend to have religious titles or authors. If, however, the spine of an old cloth-bound volume reads, ‘Points West, by Bo’sun Smith’ or ‘Painted Windows, by A Gentleman With a Duster’- honestly, I did see the latter in a second-hand shop- then the chances are that it is not a reminiscence of a life at sea, or a home improvement manual, but an eloquent condemnation of the pernicious influence of ROMAN CATHOLIC POPERY.

Other tempting treats include Birds of Westmorland and the Northern Pennines, by J Oliver Wilson, The Book of the Tiger, by Brigadier-General RG Burton, and Your Dogs and Mine, by Diana Thorne. And who could resist Home Fortune Telling, by RH Naylor: ‘a book of the greatest and most unusual fascination’. Did anyone ever read this stuff?

There is a section dedicated to detective and mystery fiction.  The blurb for The Man who Shook the Earth, by Sydney Horler begins, ‘”Horler,”, they say, “for excitement”’. I bet they do. The puff for Mr Daddy- Detective, by Collin Brooks (author of Mad-Doctor Merciful, Three Yards of Cord, etc) ends with the commendation: ‘Mr Collin Brooks brings to his novels an originality of mind and a freshness of execution that gives them zest and unusual qualities of entertainment.’ Can you imagine that on the back of a Stephen King or Dan Brown paperback? Arrest, by Walter Proudfoot, is attested as ‘Containing any amount of sagacious and intrepid detective work’. I’m not patronising the writers or readers of decades gone by, just remarking on how different was the style required to pull in the punters. There’s nothing wrong with it. A book containing a rapid succession of thrills or any amount of sagacious and intrepid detective work is likely to be a good yarn. It’s just that we wouldn’t sell it in those terms nowadays.

And indeed, in some ways, the bygone age is the winner. The summaries are written in correct English grammar, and their fanciful nature demands a substantial vocabulary. Looking at the back cover of a 2001 paperback edition of Nick Hornby’s How to be Good, one sees a quote from a newspaper review: ‘Pins you in your armchair and won’t let go. Eating, drinking, bathing- all took second place while I was reading the book How to be Good. How to be bloody marvellous, more like.’ Maybe there’s something to be said for ‘Horler,’ they say.