Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Gallery 3: The Artwork of John Harris















Welcome to our third gallery art here at Who Is George Mills?

1939 brought the third book of George Mills into existence, Minor and Major, published in London by Geo. G. Harrap and Co., Ltd. It was published in the same size and in the same format as Mills's preceding book, King Willow, published by Harrap in 1938: Four full-page black line illustrations, a full-colour frontispiece, and various embellishments throughout the cover and first few pages. The format, down the the hand-lettered titles, is identical to Willow. [Click any illustration to enlarge it.]

While not strictly a sequel, some of the boys from King Willow do, in fact, appear in Minor and Major, albeit briefly.

This time around, however, the illustrator is not one of the Brocks, C. E. or H. M., but John Harris. Trying to find background information on a "John Harris" rivals what it once had been like looking for George Mills, so nothing is known of his background.


His watercolour work pales—quite literally—next to the colourful paintings of the Brocks. But watercolour is not the best Harris has to offer.





Harris's pen and ink work is of a similar character as that of H. M. Brock, at least in so far as his black line drawings have some of the flavor of an engraving.Still, Harris's talented hand is uneven. While each of the full page illustrations requires different aesthetic attributes in describing various scenes in the story, I might have surmised that two, or ever three, different draughtsmen had executed the four full-page illustrations.

Harris is more than competent, but following the Brock brothers, his work appears of lesser quality by comparison. They would be a tough act to follow, even for an above average chap like Harris.


"All right, it's only me" (Page 61)




"The headmaster threw open the door" (Page 109)




"All right, just you jolly well wait and see, Sandy" (Page 139)




"Competitors for the 440 come her at once" (Page 211)



Check in next time, when we'll take a look at Oxford University Press's 1950 reprinting of Meredith and Co. See you then!




Kipling, Nicholson, Dewey & Mills


















Once in a while, I will thumb through the well-worn pages of the books of George Mills looking for clues. Clues to what, you ask? I'm really never sure, and I'm always uncertain as to what I may find.

Recently I noticed a slight difference between two editions of his first book, the 1933 and 1950 editions of Meredith and Co.

Absent from the 1933 edition are the following lines:

Give me a willow wand, and I
With hide and cork and twine,
From century to century,
Will gambol round thy shrine

                          —Kipling


The verse comes from a publication entitled An Almanac of Twelve Sports, published in 1898 by English woodblock printmaker William Nicholson, "with words by Rudyard Kipling." It is set up as a calendar of sorts:

January – Hunting; February – Coursing; March – Racing; April – Boating; May – Fishing; June – Cricket; July – Archery; August – Coaching; September – Shooting; October – Golf; November – Boxing; and December – Skating

An additional verse also appears within the actual text:

Cricket.

  Thank God who made the British Isles
       And taught me how to play,
     I do not worship crocodiles
       Or bow the knee to clay!

     Give me a willow wand and I,
       With hide and cork and twine,
     From century to century
       Will gambol round my Shrine.


While cricket plays an important part in both Meredith and Co. and it sequel, King Willow, football and track & field are featured as well.

The appearance of this Kipling verse, it seems, is about far more than cricket. This also seems the perfect time to examine it, immediately after entries regarding other features of Mills's first two novels, both of which feature the playing of the sport.


My hunch is that when George Mills attended school himself as a boy—he went to Parkfield in Haywards Heath and then Harrow—things would have been difficult for him. After all, he was slight of build with a speech impediment. How much of the discomfort he felt at school was attributable to any institution, and how much could have been ascribed to the nature of young boys in such an environment, is unknown.

When his first book about boys' preparatory schools, Meredith and Co., was published in 1933 it carried the subtitle: "The Story of a Modern Preparatory School."

In subtitling his text, Mills clearly draws a distinction between the schools he attended—not physically, but in their philosophy of handling and educating children—and the "modern" schools at which he'd taught in the late 1920s and early 1930s.

Mills taught in an era greatly influenced by educational reformer John Dewey [left]. Texts of Dewey's with which Mills may have been familiar were The School and Society (1900), The Child and the Curriculum (1902), and Democracy and Education (1916).

Of Dewey, Wikipedia states: "In his eyes, the purpose of education should not revolve around the acquisition of a pre-determined set of skills, but rather the realization of one’s full potential and the ability to use those skills for the greater good… Dewey advocated for an educational structure that strikes a balance between delivering knowledge while also taking into account the interests and experiences of the student."


The books of George Mills clearly illustrate exactly that sort of balance in many overt and subtle ways. While the settings in the books of Mills are traditional, as are the classroom management techniques, the overall focus on the development of the child as a whole is obvious.

In Joanna S. Hall's paper "John Dewey and Pragmatism in the Primary School: a thing of the past?" in the journal Curriculum Studies, Volume 4, Issue 1, 1996 , pp. 5-23, the author studies Dewey's influence on British education.

From the abstract we learn:

In 1906, J. J. Findlay, Professor of Education at Manchester, eased English readers into pragmatism's foreign beginnings by setting John Dewey alongside Pestalozzi, Herbart and Froebel. This paper investigates the interweavings of pragmatism in the years following the First World War, when it appeared in views of children, pedagogy and curriculum.


This is the time George Mills lived, seeing these developments first hand. What a shock it must have been, however, following World War II, when George returned to being a schoolmaster and discovered that his notion of that ideal, modern prep school had been greatly altered.

We read last time about some anonymous readers here discussing their experiences with public school education, circa 1950 – 1975: "I'm afraid that the Catholic school system, as you probably know, was infested for many years by paedophiles and ghastly sadists," and "In hindsight it was a hideous, sadistic and monsterous Dickensian nightmare of a school."

None of that could have coincided easily with what George considered a "modern" education.


Hence, the verse by Kipling [pictured, right] is found, not in the 1933 edition of Meredith and Co.—the first edition, published in a modern era during which Mills had great hope for education—but in the 1950 edition, and subsequently the 1957 edition, the latter printed at a time when Mills—aged 61—would have been jaded about preparatory institutions, their changing philosophies, and their often questionable practices.

This Kipling poem hearkens back to the time of Mills's boyhood, when reality had to struggle mightily to separate itself from a young boy's fantasies, and the simple joys of that time of life seemed as if they might last virtually forever—"From century to century…"


This nostalgic note in the final reprinting of Meredith and Co. is telling. Mills had seen the changes that had taken place in school teaching and education, but he never addressed them directly. No new titles or characters leapt from his pen—or typewriter.

In a subtle change to the original layout of his first novel, Mills inserted a simple verse that allowed himself to drift back, nostalgically, to a time that made far more sense: To reading Kipling in bed, to dewy cricket pitches warming in the sun, to Modern Preparatory Schools, and to the never ending innocence of youth.

While that verse seems to be about the sport cricket, it actually says so much more about the life, the teaching career, and the nostalgic thoughts of an aging George Mills.





Gallery 2: The Work of Henry Matthew Brock























Our second gallery will, of course, focus on the artist responsible for the various works featured in the second novel by George Mills.

King Willow, the sequel to 1933's Meredith and Co., was published in London in 1938 by Geo. G. Harrap and Co., Ltd.

King Willow was illustrated by the talented Henry Matthew Brock, younger brother of C. E. Brock.



This first edition of King Willow is not only complete with a full colour frontispiece and four black line interior plates, but Brock was commissioned to embellish the text, from the cloth-bound boards of its exterior to small illustrations designed around the text of the tables of contents and illustrations [click to enlarge any image].



Brock's powerful and confident line brings a real clarity to certain of the interior illustrations that belies the whimsical quality of many others. His quality of line takes on the emotion of each illustration in a way that one can almost feel his hand interpreting the scenario found in the text as he drew it. Take for example, the contrast between the idyllic napper resting above the words "Chapter I," and the stern, authoritarian feel that is almost palpable in "Go down to my study, and wait for me."



"Go down to my study, and wait for me" (Page 99)


H. M. Brock may be the younger sibling of a noted older brother, but he clearly does not play second fiddle here. Of C. E. Brock, Wikipedia states: "He and his brothers maintained a Cambridge studio filled with various curios, antiques, furniture, and a costume collection. Using these, family members would model for each other."


"Murray picked up the dressing-gown and searched it" (Page 66)




"Puffing and panting and glaring at each other" (Page 131)




"Uggles occupied a good deal of the space" (Page 191)



The third book of George Mills—Minor and Major—will be the subject of the exhibition of our third gallery of artwork. Please don't miss the opening reception. Perhaps I'll serve wine and cheese…




Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Gallery 1: The Work of Charles Edmund Brock




















As we continue to try to tie up loose ends here at Who Is George Mills?, it seems a good idea to open an art gallery of sorts related to the writing of George Mills. Over the next few days, we'll be uploading all of art found in Mills's boys' preparatory stories and making it searchable on-line.

Today we're starting with his classic: The first edition of Meredith and Co.: The Story of a Modern Preparatory School, published in 1933 by Oxford University Press, and illustrated by the legendary Charles Edmund Brock.

C. E. Brock, born in 1870, was 63 years of age and at the height of his fame when he was commissioned to do the watercolours for George's first book. That would provide one a great indication of the esteem in which Mills's manuscript was held at OUP at the time.

Besides the cover above [click any image to enlarge it], Brock also did a vertical watercolour of the the boys creeping out of the school at night, as well as a gorgeous frontispiece. You can see these two artworks to the right and below.



Next time, we'll advance to the 1950 edition of Meredith and Co. We'll see you then…





A Quiet Croquet Bench in Budleigh


Several weeks ago I posted a scrapbook of sorts, featuring many images and texts involving the era of croquet in which the Mills siblings—George, Agnes, and Violet—played after the Second World War.

Recently received from our friend Joanna Healing in Budleigh Salterton is a photograph [above] of the bench on one of the lawns at the Budleigh Salterton Croquet Club dedicated to the Guy and Joan Warwick, neighbours of the Mills on Westfield Road and integral members of the club.

We can see the bench reads:

Given in fond memory of
JOAN and GUY WARWICK
by their cousins
MYRTLE WALKER and JOSEPHINE EMORY
October 1983


That time frame would have been just after Guy's death.

Thank you so much, Joanna, and, as always, if anyone has anything similar, please don't hesitate to send it along.

And thanks once again to Budleigh's Judy Perry for the image of Joan and Guy…




Monday, July 25, 2011

Egerton Clarke: A Final Look at the Man and his Work














After a month of almost full-time study, I feel as if Egerton Arthur Crossman Clarke—orphan, scholar, soldier, poet, librarian, and art director—has become a part of me.

While I can appreciate and enjoy Clarke's poetry, I'll admit to being far more of a "free verse" sort of fellow, the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda being my one of my favourites, along with American Langston Hughes. Egerton's early work in couplets and quatrains simply doesn't move me the way I am certain he would have preferred, and any critique I could offer, save a dim "I like it," would be embarrassingly uninformed.

To the rescue comes friend of the website Jennifer M., an English Literature major from prestigious Gettysburg College in Pennsylvania. Over the past few weeks of my obsession with Egerton Clarke, I've shared information and his poetry with her, and she has generously consented to share with us her thoughts on our subject.

The real beauty of what she has written is found in being able to follow her along the linear path of her thinking about Egerton Clarke, his life, and his work. Flavoring it along the way with thoughts of the poetry she's read, as well as some personal experience and the influence of outside readings she has done, makes the result a commentary, rooted in informed speculation, on the life and times of Clarke, and to a degree, George Mills.

Mostly regarding Clarke's text, Kezil and Other Poems, and presented in her own words, here it is, interrupted only an occasional note answering any questions she had along the way. You can also click HERE to read the poems in a different window as she discusses them.


Sunday, June 26, 2011 11:49 AM

What really interests me is the dedication. Ernest "opened the door for me," Gerald "opened my eyes once and for all," and the mysterious "Kezil" who inspired so much. My first thought is that Egerton was gay, and he's subtly paying tribute to friends/lovers who helped him come out in some small way. The poem refers to Kezil as a "she" but of course that could have been just for cover.

It's an interesting coincidence that you would send me this now, because I just added Wilfred Owens' poetry [Owen is pictured, right] to my Amazon wish list, and Clarke's book was written around the same time. I know I had read "Dulce et Decorum Est" in high school or college at some point; when I read it again just recently I appreciated it on a whole new level, and I decided I would like to read more of his poetry. Clarke's poetry is different, of course, not all about the horrors of war.

I often prefer "old fashioned" poets like Clarke or Owens; I can understand what they're trying to say, and because they don't use the surrealistic or outlandish imagery of later poets, the ideas can really sink in more easily.

I like "Kezil." It's very romantic in a mysterious, "Far East" kind of way. The imagery of all the red and the sun and the feast on the lawn reminds me of some of the imagery of Maugham's stories. I imagine a landscape hot, maybe in the desert, the sky is shades of red, orange and gold, and lying about as the heat starts to increase as the sun rises, remembering the lovemaking of the night before as "poems of his body's memory/Carved upon the lawn." Clarke is remembering all this from a long time ago, and it was so wonderful he thinks it may have been "but a garden dream." The poem is "writ/But as yet unread," maybe because Clarke never told "Kezil" of his feelings for her/him?

Feel free to tell me I'm way off base, if I am. But I have a feeling I'm pretty close.

I loved "Shadows" because the imagery is of a time that I enjoy reading and watching movies about: a graceful old England, tea in the garden but not a simple picnic, no, we have a table with lace cloth and the good china things brought out to the garden by the servants. It reminds me of some reading I've done about the British Raj, where these people in India would go on an outing and take half a dozen donkeys with tents, furniture, household utensils, and loads of other things just to spend the day outdoors, but in
comfort and with as much style as they would have at home. I was just out on my balcony cooling off before coming in to write this, and while I just have my little folding chair, it is nice to sit outside, away from TV and music and internet, and just laze around with a book on my lap, or just look around me at the trees, thinking my thoughts.



Monday, June 27, 2011 7:30 PM


It occurred to me yesterday after I sent you my thoughts about Egs that maybe I was viewing him through "Maugham colored glasses," so to speak. I've read most of Maugham's works and two biographies of him (the best by far is The Secret Lives of Somerset Maugham by Selina Hastings). He was gay, but for most of his life homosexuality was illegal in England, so he constantly had to hide who he was. He traveled all over the world, where in some places it was more tolerated, and retired to France. He had two long term relationships (Gerald Haxton and Alan Searle) and a number of other lovers, as well as a wife (Syrie) for cover, who bore him a daughter (Liza). The caption under the first picture of him is "a lonely child, guarded and withdrawn." People who knew him guessed that having to hide his sexuality went a long way towards making him a guarded and private person in general, who often had little tolerance for other people's foolishness. His stories are brilliant, his travel writing also fascinating, yet most people who knew him felt they didn't really know him. There is one *ahem* remarkable picture in the book of Maugham and some male friends sunbathing nude. So on their private estates they could let their hair down a little, but they also had to be careful who was around.

Anyway, I realized that I was applying many of these standards to Egs, and assuming he was gay. And they could all be true, or none of them true. But that dedication sticks with me. I'd be curious to see the dedications in his other books. I think the one in Kezil is one of the longest I've seen in any book. Do you have any idea who Gerald Crow and Ernest Duggan were? (And I agree with Egs that deciding who to dedicate your first book to would be a difficult choice, which makes his selection of Gerald and Ernest all the more significant.)

[Crow was an influential poet at Oxford during the time. Duggan did not attend Oxford, and there is not enough information about him to identify him from among the many Ernest Duggans of the era.]

I was thinking too about George, and your comments in your croquet article that there was really no trace of him after WWII, except for the croquet results. I imagine it would be hard for him, serving as an Army paymaster but not serving in the Army itself, handing out pay to men he knew might never come home. That could mess with your head. Do you know how George and Egs met? Was it in the Army?

[As we know, Egerton served almost exclusively with the Army Pay Corps in Winchester, Hampshire, where he became acquainted with George Mills, during his months in the military.]

After living through WWII, with Nazi rockets slamming right into your house, I can see how one would want to retire and just play croquet for the rest of your life. After something like that, maybe stories about boys' schools didn't seem so consequential anymore. I'm sure a lot of things that seemed important wouldn't matter much anymore after an experience like that. Perhaps some of the real boys he based the characters on died in the war.

So, back to the poems (in no particular order).

Envy: Well, I saw a whole bunch of "the love that dare not speak its name" in this poem. Making of evidence a lie, he dares taste only the seeds, coward comforts, nought is real before the eye, and in spite of all this make-believe, contented he would be. Of course, if the poem turns out to be something else entirely, I'm gonna feel like a goof. But the more I read them over the more I'm convinced he's talking about something he can't really talk about. Do you know what year he was married? I would be interested to see if it was before or after this book was published.

[Clarke married Teresa Kelly at Winchester, Hampshire, in 1926, and they had three children together.]

Reverie: This one made me sad, because I can relate to his feeling of going back to the places of your childhood and realizing that those days are gone forever. I, too, "understand the present lack of all the half-remembered moods." The places where you were a child may not have changed, but you, the person, surely have. "Is irretrievable the time/When afternoons meant nurse and walk?" Sadly, when you're a grown-up, they do seem to be.

In Hospital: This one brought to mind some of Wilfred Owens' poems. This one is a good portrayal of someone in pain in the hospital, not really aware of their surroundings, but everything makes them uncomfortable and they just want to sleep…

Was Egs in WWI, and was he wounded?

[Exclusive of his first few days under the Colours, Egerton served only in Winchester, Hampshire, in England. He easily could have come in contact with casualties receiving treatment for combat wounds, though.

By the way, is it a mere coincidence that his service and his marriage both occurred in Winchester? Might Teresa even have been one of his nurses?]


Sunday, July 03, 2011 7:31 AM

I've been rethinking my sweeping assertion that Egs and Gerald were gay. I was reminded yesterday of a book by Sharon Marcus called Between Women: Friendship, Desire and Marriage in Victorian England. I've never read it, but I've heard it referenced elsewhere.

In this persuasively argued, provocative book, Marcus makes the case that women in late 19th-century England engaged in intimate friendships—which "the Victorians... believed cultivated the feminine virtues of sympathy and altruism"—that often had a sexual component of visual objectification and even sexual intimacy.

The history of gender and sexuality becomes much more interesting, difficult, and subtle after [reading] Between Women. Reading the love and affection of nineteenth-century women now requires a new level of care and historical self-consciousness that may be painful to possess, as it will remind us of our own losses--of the affection, eroticism, attachment, encouragement, and tremendous fun between the ordinary women--real and fictional--Marcus has so valiantly re-imagined, recovered, and recorded.

I think both men and women can form deep attachments to members of the same gender without it having be a gay or lesbian romantic relationship. I think that's what I was missing when I was looking over Eg's and Gerald's poems. Today people don't generally express such deep emotions so openly. Also taking into account that these men served in WWI, a horrific experience, which would probably bind them closer to their comrades then ordinary friendships. So I withdraw my assertion that I'm certain one or any of them are gay. I just don't know, and there's really no way of knowing, now.

I'm planning to read through Kezil again so I'm sure I'll have more to say about some other of the poems.


Sunday, July 03, 2011 7:40 PM

I've read this poem over several times in a row now, and I'm still not sure what to make of it. On the surface, it's about two people sitting up all night with a friend's body. From reading I know that used to be a custom in many places, that relatives would sit up all night with the dead the first night after they died.

And yet little phrases come in and kind of skew the meaning, and make me think there's something else behind it:

Customary vigil kept
Yet gave no thought to the dead

Knowing Convention had bought
Our silence, we were afraid

But never a thought we took,
For the pale and shuttered eyes

Each thinking the other's thought,
With never a thought for him,

We knew how Custom had bought
Our love for a dead man's whim

So these two people are sitting up with their dead friend, but why aren't they thinking about him? What thought are they sharing? Seeing phrases like "convention has bought our silence" makes me drift back to the idea that Egs was gay, but I'm trying to steer myself away from that, to be open to other interpretations. Whatever is going on between him and the other mourner, it's eating at them both, and they can't think of anything else, and they don't want anyone else to know about it. Something that happened in battle, in WWI? Or they're sitting up with the dead person out of custom, but that don't really want to, it's a "dead man's whim"? I just can't get a handle on that this poem is trying to say, or rather, trying not to say.



Saturday, July 23, 2011 1:33 PM

You know, I'm really starting to second guess myself on the whole "Egs is gay" thing. I was so sure at first, but the more I learn about him from all the research you did, I'm kind of changing my mind. I think he and George were very close friends, sure, but I'm no longer convinced it was anything more than that. I think friendships between people, women or men, were different and sometimes more intense "back in the day," and I was trying to apply that using today's standards. I mean, maybe I was right, but we'll never know for sure.


Saturday, July 23, 2011 7:29 PM

Reading [this] all over, I don't think I really have a summing up to write... Just that Egs was a good poet, and maybe we're not meant to know for sure, much more about him than that.


This missive arouses a notion that has crossed my once in a while during my time researching George Mills: Could George have been gay?

Egerton's dedication, if nothing else, certainly plants the seeds for wondering something like that. He and George had been friends in the Army Pay Corps and likely also at Oxford, although they studied at different colleges: Mills at Christ Church and Clarke at Keble.

They both were extremely sensitive individuals who probably never fit into the regimentation of the military, and perhaps not even into the institutional discipline required for success at Oxon. It seems they may have relied upon one another to make their way through those experiences, although it seems as if Mills may have been more reliant on the Clarke, who ostensibly had been an orphan and already must have had ample experience taking care of himself under the auspices of an institution, St Edmund's School [left].

George's 1925 marriage to Vera Beauclerk, indeed, could have been a cover for his romantic preference. That would explain in part his childlessness, as well as providing a possible reason that Vera was residing away, in such an unusual place—Minehead—at the time of her death early in 1942.

Still, not a bit of that means, or even really suggests in the least, that he was homosexual.

It seems far more likely that George's dirty little secret as a young man—something his family knew but most others would not—was that he, like his father, was a closet Roman Catholic in a land brimming with Anglicans, of both the Low and High Churches.

It's quite possible that his faith in Catholicism might have rubbed family members the wrong way. There must be, after all, a reason why his relations today are often unaware of the existence of Georges entire branch of the family. It is possible that his mother, Elizabeth Edith Ramsay Mills, may have found herself distanced from her own family when, after they believed she was marrying an Anglican vicar, it turned out she had married a secretly devout Roman Catholic. As much as I am told it really didn't—and doesn't—matter, something certainly 'mattered' that managed to erase Revd Barton Mills and his progeny from all of his in-laws' family trees.

I find it difficult to believe that, by chance alone, they all simply happened to be entirely forgotten by everyone.


There have been other suggestions along the way here that things with Mills may not have always been what they seem. The sentence, "I'm afraid that the Catholic school system, as you probably know, was infested for many years by paedophiles and ghastly sadists," once shared by a friend of the site, springs immediately to mind. It regarded why, in the end, George [pictured, right, at Ladycross School in 1956] may have been disappointed by the union of his faith and his career in education, and eventually left teaching.

This is not to take a swipe at only Catholic prep schools regarding a problem common to many institutions. We recently received this message, attached to an entry regarding Parkfield School in Haywards Heath: "In hindsight it was a hideous, sadistic and monsterous Dickensian nightmare of a school."

There may, in fact, be some aspects of the story of George Mills that one might consider a bit on the dark side. Still, there's nothing in the evidence to verify or even indicate that George participated in any of it.


George Mills may simply have been a relatively bland fellow: A bit sickly, tall, slight of build, overly sensitive, with a speech impediment, a fine sense of humor, a keen eye for observation, and a proclivity for failing to finish what he started, especially regarding any of his careers. There may be a part of us that would like some sensational quality upon which to hang our metaphorical hat regarding George Mills. We are, after all, often privy these days to many of the controversial secrets of those in the public eye, and we have almost come to the point as a society where it's not a matter of 'if they exist,' but 'when they will be revealed.'

But that does not seem to be the case right now with our George Mills.

Returning in conclusion to Jennifer's implication of some Higher Power overseeing all of this, or with at least the sure and steady hand of fate writing out this script, she sums up everything succinctly above: "Maybe we're not meant to know for sure much more about him than that."





Sunday, July 24, 2011

Mr. Egerton Clarke, the Siege of the Alcázar, and the Second World War












The last time we met, we left Egerton Clarke in his home—probably at Egerton Gardens, S.W.3 [left]—with his purportedly Irish wife, Teresa, and his three children.

I could speculate on which of the babies with the last name of Clarke, and with a mother's maiden name of Kelly, born between 1926 and 1941 might have been the children of Egerton and Teresa, but there really is no way of knowing. There were a pair—a boy and a girl—born in the late 1920s in Winchester, where the Clarkes had been married in 1926, but I have no sure way to ascertain those were their children.


[Note: The names and even a photograph of the children with their parents can be found in this later entry: Rediscovering Egerton Clarke. It is also worth noting that, according to his graddaughter, Janine La Forestier, Teresa is spelled "Theresa." (08-17-11)]


We also left Egerton having enjoyed his thumbnail biographical sketch published in the Catholic Who's Who and Yearbook, 1941.

Today, let's take a look at how his poetry was received at the time of its publication during the early decades of the 20th century—and I feel so very old writing that last phrase!


In Blackfriars: Volume 13 in 1932, we find this critique of Clarke's new book, The Seven Niches: A Legend in Verse [London: C. Palmer, 1932], available for 2/6:

Mr. Egerton Clarke is a Catholic poet whose earlier volumes have won praise and popularity. In The Seven Niches he breaks new ground and offers a long poem in the form of a Catholic legend. The idea has the charm of originality and the flavour of experiment : both are justified.

He has succeeded in a difficult task. A long poem such as this will tax any poet's sincerity and prove whether he is capable of sustaining his inspiration to the end. Even the physical strain of producing a long poem defeats many a writer. It demands vision, uniformity of mood, consistent style, and balanced expression. A standard tone must be maintained, together with a definite level of inspiration. Atmosphere must be created and upheld. Facility of expression, obvious clichés, commonplace rhymes may creep into a purely narrative poem, where the story is the first thing that matters. Tennyson and Masefield [right] are examples of such almost inevitable lapses.

But The Seven Niches is more like a richly embroidered tapestry than an unadorned tale. Every detail is complete in colour and execution ; every tiny piece will bear close inspection. That is the author's triumph. He has weighed every word, re-cast every phrase. He has considered every image, every metaphor before giving his final sanction. Therefore the poem has emerged clear-cut, glistening, chaste as a masterpiece in stained glass. Because the poem was not easy to write it is not easy to read. It does not carry the reader along with easy rhyme and dancing rhythm. For its understanding there must be concentration — even a mood of spiritual sympathy, almost of devotion.


Amazing praise for a poet of any era, being compared quite favorably to the two Poet Laureates with the longest tenures in history. It is a shame that his mother, Emma Anna Clarke, did not live to hear her son compared to those greats: She had passed away in 1931 while residing in her birthplace, Bishops Stortford, Herts. A solicitor, not Egerton, was the executor of the £194 12s. she proved in probate after actually expiring in "Silverdale Sydenham," south of London.


Most of the critiques of his work that are available today focus on his last book of poems: Alacazar and Other Poems [London: Burns, Oates, & Washbourne, 1937]. Here are some samples from the critics:

From the St Gregory's Society's The Downside Review (Vol. 56) in 1938:

WITHIN the thirty pages of this booklet Mr Egerton Clarke has collected some nineteen poems, several of which have already appeared in various Catholic periodicals. Perhaps the first poem in the book — that concerned with the famous siege of the Alcazar in 1936 — is most representative of Mr Clarke's poetic insight and expression.

The subject itself affords a good touchstone of poetic talent : the the minor poet, elated by the theme, dilates on valour and seldom goes deeper than the barest surface of reality. Mr Clarke sees the event both in its contemporary setting and its ultimate causes. The result is a finely-wrought integration of an historical event and its supernatural ramifications.


Also from 1938, this from the Dublin Review:

In Alcazar Mr. Clarke has produced a volume of poems of value and interest and materially increased his reputation as a writer of poetry.

His interpretation of history in the title poem, in which the communist assault on Christendom is regarded as the final working out of the schism of Byzantium from Rome, is made convincing and the result is a piece of the school of [G. K. Chesterton's] "Lepanto". But there are finer and more individual poems. "Cistercians in the Mangold Field" has great power, and there is an apocalyptic beauty in "Munera Angelorum."


[Note: Egerton Clarke and G. K. Chesterton were, indeed, friends according to Clarke's family. (08-17-11)]


And, finally, this from the Ampleforth Abbey's The Ampleforth Journal: Volumes 43-44, in 1937:

ALCAZAR. By Egerton Clarke (Burns Oates & Washbourne) 1s.

Fr Martindale once said that man is the only creature whose natural posture is on his knees. Mr Clarke shows a realisation of this truth in this little book of poems — there are only nineteen of them — for each is an expression of love through prayer that we find only too seldom in poetry of to-day. But except for this sameness of purpose we should find it hard to believe that the author of the two Christmas poems, "Munera Angelorum " and " Presents from the North " was the same as the author of the loosely-constructed and still more loosely expressed "Solitary Eye."

In the one the poet shows a delicateness of technique which is completely lacking in the other. Similarly in "Black Coat—6 p.m." and "Edgware Road", he departs from direct expression and loses his reader in sentences of enormous length; piling image on image, metaphor on metaphor, until the sense is lost. It is worth while comparing from the point of view of technique (and incidentally of poetic value) these lines from the Solitary Eye:—


…Buses and men

In dark heraldic shapes, of unreal origin

To his one frightened eye, swerve to a vast triangle

filled with designing ladybirds, then scatter

in long expanding pentagons that soon

resolve their shivering blurs to one blue, steady

and returning star, the solitary eye


With these from "The Hand," a poem written on holding the reliquary containing the hand of Blessed Margaret Clitheroe: —

Within my hand thy hand that folded with its twin in prayer...


I only wish that Google Books would provide me with more than that single line of a poem written about the fascinating story of the martyred saint [right] whose hand is kept in the chapel of the Bar Convent in York.


Other poems and articles by Clarke appeared over time in journals like Blackfriars; although the following list is in no way meant to be comprehensive, here is a sample:


• Clarke, E. (1932), REGZNAE EQUESTRIUM (for D. B. Wyndham Lewis). New Blackfriars, 13: 428

• Clarke, E. (1931), THE INHERITANCE. New Blackfriars, 12: 577

• Clarke, Egerton. "William Butler Yeats." The Dublin Magazine, April/June 1939

• Clarke, Egerton. "William Butler Yeats," Dublin Review, 204:409 (Apr- May-June 1939), 305-21. [Includes an untitled poem written in memory of Yeats.]

• Clarke, Egerton. "Gérard Hopkins, Jesuit." Dublin Review, 198 (London 1936) 127-141.


It appears that Clarke's work was well-regarded by contemporary critics in the United Kingdom, and sought after by certain periodicals. However, what I am unable to determine is whether or not it was regarded as completely mainstream, or a highly regarded Catholic niche author.

The idea of the son of a clergyman in the Church of England, and sometimes even the clerics themselves, resolving to become Catholic permeates the story of George Mills. I have heard from British citizens of today that it doesn't matter very much if a vicar might be a Roman Catholic, but I've been unable to determine if that's generally true. Clerics contacted for insight regarding the subject have not replied to those requests.

Here's an interesting point of view from the knowledgeable Jennifer M., Poet Laureate of this website:

Everything I know about the Catholic and Anglican churches in England runs from Henry VIII to Elizabeth I, when converting from one to the other was a huge big deal, and you sure would hide it if you were around certain people. Maybe there was still a stigma attached to it in George’s time. Wikipedia tells me that as of 2001, only 8% of England and Wales was Catholic.

English Catholicism continued to grow throughout the first two thirds of the 20th century, when it was associated primarily with elements in the English intellectual class and the ethnic Irish population.

I wonder if it was easier to make a living as an Anglican cleric, and that’s why [George's father, the Revd Barton R. V. Mills, a Roman Catholic convert who then took several livings as a vicar, and ascended to chaplaincy at the Chapel Royal at the Savoy] did it. Or maybe it was more socially acceptable [by then]. I guess maybe a lot of people had to do things that were against their beliefs in order to survive, whether it was 1883 or 1583.


With that statistic—8% of the population—fixed in my mind, I wonder if Egerton Clarke was a renowned poet or a renowned Catholic poet. I also wonder if there was—or is—a difference.

If not as a Catholic author, but surely as an author whose religion was Roman Catholic, Clarke soon began to write children's books—another area in which he and George Mills shared something in common.

The Catholic publishing house of Burns, Oates, & Washbourne had printed Egerton's noteworthy Alcazar and Other Poems in 1937, his response to the symbolic and propaganda-oriented stand-off [below, right] between Republican and Nationalist forces at Toledo, Spain, during the Spanish Civil War.

In 1936 and in 1937, Egerton had also published children's books with that company: St Peter, the First Pope, and Our Lady of Flowers.

While Egerton did not publish in 1938 any text that I can find, he was still involved in the area of children's literature after 1937.

The evidence is found in the preface to the third children's book of George Mills, 1939's Minor and Major, which focused on boys' preparatory schools:

PREFACE


THIS book deals with life in a big preparatory school, and tells about the boys and masters, their goings-out and their comings-in. All the characters are imaginary, and no allusion is meant to any living person.

The boys, who first appeared in Meredith & Co. and King Willow, once again present themselves for a short time during a cricket match.

I wish to record my thanks to my old friend, Mr H. E. Howell, for so kindly reading the manuscript and proofs. I also recognize the kindly aid of a schoolboy, Terence Hadow, whose criticisms have been invaluable, as also has the encouragement given to me by my friend, Mr Egerton Clarke, who has read the book in manuscript form. My thanks are also due to Mr A. L. Mackie, who has kindly helped to read the proofs.

G.M.



Once again we find the mysterious Mr. H. E. Howell, and we've discussed the tragic circumstances under which Terence Hadow was lost during the Second World War.

Here, we consider the fact that Egerton Clarke—an old friend of Mills who had recently published children's books of his own—was offering encouragement as well as reading George's original manuscript before the book's 1939 press run.

The fact that Mills doesn't mention Clarke in either of his first two books suggests this was a reunion of sorts for the two old friends. Egerton ostensibly had been pursuing a career as a poet while becoming a father, while Mills had been striving to make teaching his vocation at a variety of public schools and having been trying to make a husband of himself, although he remained childless.

In 1939, Mills would complete the third book of his prep school 'trilogy,' but that would not be the only text he'd have published in that very year, before the looming World War: Mills also published a children's book, Saint Thomas of Canterbury, with—and you may have guessed this—Burns, Oates, & Washbourne. Saint Thomas, still found on the shelves of the British Library, remains the only text of George's that I have not seen or read.


If someone should mention to me it was simply coincidental that Egerton Clarke had helped Mills with the writing and editing of his manuscript for Minor and Major in the same year that Mills also had published St Thomas of Canterbury at the Egerton's Catholic publishing house, that it was all completely unrelated, I would have to disagree.

Perhaps the 1938 release of George's King Willow, the sequel to 1933's Meredith and Co., had come to the attention of Clarke, reuniting the two men after marriage and careers had separated the two old army and Oxford mates. Or perhaps they simply bumped into each other at the theatre or in a coffee shop that year. For whatever reason, they had reconnected.


The year 1938 followed Egerton's publication of his poem "Alcazar," a work that was clearly an intense experience for both the reader and the poet. The siege [left] involving the army of fascist Generalissimo Francisco Franco at Toledo, and the suffering of the innocents involved, foretold the painful story of the Second World War, a global conflict fueled, at least in its European Theatre of Operations, by the tenets of fascism during which the world's suffering was immense.

War was declared by Britain in 1939, the year George Mills published his last published writing, save for the odd letter to the editor of The Times thereafter.

Egerton Clarke, as far as one can tell, had already published his final literary works in 1937.

Neither man would write creatively again.

We know that on 11 October 1940, Mills re-entered the military as part of the Royal Army Pay Corps—where he had once been ceremoniously disposed of as a 'useless' fatigue man—and as a 2nd lieutenant at that.

What became of poet Egerton Clarke during the hostilities, though? Once again, we must look to the reference books. In the text Catholic Authors: Contemporary Biographical Sketches (1948) by Matthew Hoehn, we find this relatively complete entry:


Egerton Clarke 1899-1944.

From 1933 to 1939, Egerton Clarke was children's Librarian of Messrs. Burns Oates and Washbourne, the Catholic publishers. In 1939 he was art editor of the publishing firm of Hutchinson's.

Egerton Clarke was born in 1899, the son of the Reverend Percy Carmichael Clarke, an Anglican Chaplain living at Dinard, Brittany. He was educated at St. Edmund's School, Canterbury and at Keble College, Oxford. When 23 years of age (1922) he was received into the Church. During World War I he served with the 5th Devon Regiment from 1917 to 1918. In 1926 he married Teresa Kelly of Dublin. Two sons and one daughter were born from the marriage. The author of many books of poems, he was a vice-president of the Catholic Poetry Society. Up until his death in October, 1944 he was secretary of St. Hugh's Society for Catholic boys of the professional classes. He is the author of: The Death of Glass and Other Poems (1923); The Ear-ring (1923); The Popular Kerry Blue Terrier (1927); The Death of England and Other Poems (1930); The Seven Niches: a Legend in Verse (1932), and Alcazar (1937). He was also a contributor to periodicals.


Egerton Arthur Crossman Clarke passed away on 20 October 1944. We don't know the cause of Egerton's death, but it is interesting to note that there were Nazi rocket attacks on England during that time, specifically these dates:

Oct. 3, (20.00 hours) A4 rocket fired, impacted in Denton, the impact was about 10 minutes later (longer than normal) creating much damage.

Oct. 03, (23.00 hours) A4 rocket fired, impacted Wanstead (Leytonstone)

Oct. 09, (10.42 hours) A4 rocket fired, impacted at Brooke.


If he had been injured in the collateral damage of those explosions, he could have been in the hospital for a while before he succumbed to his wounds.

It also is entirely possible, however, that, given his lifelong weakness of heart, the organ simply failed Egerton at last, causing his death at the tender age of 45 years.


[Note: No! Clarke actually died of tuberculosis after an experimental procedure according to Janine. She adds: "When my grandfather was ill, they did an experimental treatment on him - deliberately collapsing his lung(s)? - the treatment failed. Clearly." (08-17-11)]


Perhaps Clarke would have published additional poetry and children's books after the war. We'll never know.

But we do know that George Mills never published another book.

The time frame form 1939 through 1945 was a period during which Mills—like many others in the UK and across the globe—lost a great many people who were dear to him, not the least of which would have been his wife, his mother, and Egerton Clarke.

You may recall the London Gazette, dated 2 November 1943, ran the following item:

Lt. and Paymr. G. R. A. Mills (150796) relinquishes his commn. on account of ill health, 3 Nov. 1943, and is granted the hon. rank of Lt.


This bout with "ill health" pre-dates the death of Egerton Clarke the following year, but it suggests that George already was struggling to survive the war, even though it seems improbable that Mills, then 47 years of age, was near any actual combat.

The condition of his health did not preclude George from engaging in a public tiff with a retired Major General in the letter column of The Times in April of 1944 while Mills was using the rocket-damaged Naval and Military Club [right], Piccadilly, as his mailing address.

After the death of Egerton Clarke in late 1944, and his mother in late 1945, Mills went quiet until he wrote a whimsical remembrance of his father's to The Times in April of 1959.

These letters to the editor—written almost exactly 15 years apart—are believed to be the last words that George would publish.


In 1944, George Mills lost a friend and contact in the publishing industry. Still, he had published works with the Oxford University Press and Geo. G. Harrap and Co. without any assistance from Egerton Clarke of which we're aware.

It seems as if the global conflict that changed the world so profoundly may have played a part in silencing George Mills, at least as author, even though he had other windmills at which he needed to tilt before his own passing in 1972.


That's a story for another day, though. Next time, we'll look at the poetry of Egerton Clarke—primarily his early work, circa 1920—from the vantage point of today.

Don't miss it!