Sunday, September 23, 2012

A (late) spring harvest

I have been meaning to write something about Tolkien’s childhood friend, Geoffrey Bache Smith, for a long time now. At last, I have gotten the nudge I needed because of an exciting new development, about which you will hear more in a moment.

Who was Geoffrey Bache Smith? Many of my regular readers will already know, but for those who don’t, some background is probably in order. I will try to keep it brief, since others have already written much more extensively about Smith and there is little point in copying their work here. Instead, see the end of this post for suggestions on where to learn more. But to try to put it succinctly —

G.B. Smith was a talented poet and one of Tolkien’s closest friends at King Edward’s School and later at Oxford. With Tolkien, he was a member of that inseparable foursome at the heart of the T.C.B.S. (Tea Club and Barrovian Society), the other two being Rob Gilson and Christopher Wiseman. Smith and Gilson were killed during World War I, after which Tolkien and Wiseman — just Tolkien, really, but he wanted Wiseman credited as well — published a posthumous collection of Smith’s poems, A Spring Harvest (Erskine Macdonald, 1918). Tolkien wrote a short prefatory note — see the scan above, signed by Tolkien (sorry about the tilt; I tried to rotate it, but the quality suffered). The collection runs to some 80 pages, and it has regrettably been out of print for close to a century. We don’t know how many copies were printed, but it can’t be very many. Most of the surviving copies are probably in private collections, but I know of a handful in university libraries.

Over the past few years, I’ve tried to track down a copy to read, but it’s proven impossible so far. It hasn’t been practical to travel to one of the universities with a copy yet. This is not a book that would be lent out through interlibrary loan (the note above did come from an ILL request, but I can’t get the entire book reproduced this way).

A few of Smith’s poems, or parts of them, have been appeared in print here and there (particularly in Garth and Scull/Hammond; see the end of this post). Smith’s two short “Songs on the Downs”, appeared in Oxford Poetry 1915, just a few pages before Tolkien’s own “Goblin Feet”, about which I have written more than once (for example, this post). Elsewhere, “The Burial of Sophocles”, a poem Tolkien singled out in his note, was reprinted in The Valiant Muse: An Anthology of Poems by Poets Killed in the World War (ed. Frederic W. Ziv; Putnam’s Sons, 1936). Excerpts from “A Preface for a Tale I never Told” (sic), “We who have Bowed Ourselves to Time”, and “Anglia Valida in Senectute”, appear in For Remembrance: Soldier Poets Who Have Fallen in the War (Arthur St. John Adcock; Hodder and Stoughton, 1918).

From the excerpts I’ve seen, “Anglia Valida in Senectute” is a particularly poignant work.

We are old, we are old, and worn and school’d with ills,
.....Maybe our road is almost done,
Maybe we are drawn near unto the hills
.....Where rest is and the setting sun.
[…]
Whatever comes, I will strike once surely,
.....Once because of an ancient tryst,
Once for love of your dear dead faces
.....Ere I come unto you, Shapes in the mist.
[…]
And [God] grant us at that ending
.....Of the unkindly quest
To come unto the quiet isles
.....Beyond Death’s Starry West

Powerful and somber lines, revealing the wisdom of an old soul. Particularly harrowing when you consider the man who wrote them was only twenty-two years old when he perished. The third stanza I’ve quoted almost sounds like it could be bound up in Tolkien’s mythology, doesn’t it? It almost sounds like a prayer Frodo might send out into the void to Elbereth.

So what is this exciting new development? Surely you’ve guessed.

As it happens, Mark Atherton has just published a new study of The Hobbit and its origins — à propos of its seventy-fifth anniversary — and he includes as an appendix a selection of poems from A Spring Harvest. Eight poems I hadn’t read before (at least not whole): “Rime”, “A Preface for a Tale I Have Never Told”, “A Sonnet”, “It Was All in the Black Countree”, “O There Be Kings Whose Treasuries”, “O, One Came Down from Seven Hills”, “Over the Hills and Hollows Green”, “So We Lay Down the Pen”.

This appendix is a nice treat, but it isn’t the exciting development. Think of this as just a hors d’oeuvre to whet your appetites, because Atherton prefaces his appendix with this surprising announcement: “A new edition of A Spring Harvest is forthcoming, edited by Douglas A. Anderson.” Well, how about that! I wrote to Doug, and he confirmed this is true. So we should shortly be able to read the complete collection, along with, I am sure, some very useful and interesting background material. Keep your eyes on Doug’s blog for a formal announcement to come.

Appendix

If you want to know more about G.B. Smith, consult the following works (for a start).

Anderson, Douglas A. “Smith, Geoffrey Bache (1894–1916).” Michael D.C. Drout, ed. J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment. New York: Routledge, [2006]. 617–8.

Garth, John. “Robert Quilter Gilson, T.C.B.S.: A Brief Life in Letters.” Tolkien Studies 8 (2011): 67-96

Garth, John. “T.C.B.S. (Tea Club and Barrovian Society).” Michael D.C. Drout, ed. J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical Assessment. New York: Routledge, [2006]. 635–6.

Garth, John. Tolkien and the Great War: The Threshold of Middle-earth. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2003.

Hammond, Wayne G., with the assistance of Douglas A. Anderson. J.R.R. Tolkien: A Descriptive Bibliography. New Castle, Deleware: Oak Knoll, 1993. 280–1.

Scull, Christina and Wayne G. Hammond. “Smith, Geoffrey Bache.” The J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide, Volume 2: Reader’s Guide. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2006. 938–42.

Scull, Christina and Wayne G. Hammond. “G.B. Smith: An Inventory.” January 15, 2012.

13 comments:

  1. Hi Jason,
    I hope this finds you well. Thank you very much for yet another fascinating post. On 5th November 2012 I will attending the official opening of the Field of Remembrance in Belfast. As well as planting a remembrance cross for a Great Uncle who was killed in Thiepval Wood I would, now, like to add a cross for Smith with a stanza, or two, of his added to the cross. I look forward to 'A Spring Harvest' with relish - I'll certainly purchase a copy too, and review it for Amon Hen. I will also purchase a copy to donate to the Somme Centre in Newtownards.

    Michael Cunningham

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  2. Hi Jason,
    I hope this finds you well. Thank you very much for yet another fascinating post. On 5th November 2012 I will attending the official opening of the Field of Remembrance in Belfast. As well as planting a remembrance cross for a Great Uncle who was killed in Thiepval Wood I would, now, like to add a cross for Smith with a stanza, or two, of his added to the cross. I look forward to 'A Spring Harvest' with relish - I'll certainly purchase a copy too, and review it for Amon Hen. I will also purchase a copy to donate to the Somme Centre in Newtownards.

    Michael Cunningham

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  3. Wonderful idea! Nice to hear from you, Michael.

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  4. I was also struck by the quotes from "The Burial of Sophocles" in John Garth's book. Can't help with "A Spring Harvest", but can help with the rest of the poem, as my daughter was kind enough to track down a copy of "The Valiant Muse" foe me for Christmas. Hope it's OK to pose the entire poem here (in the following three posts; if not, please delete.

    Source and possible copyright: Ziv, Frederic W. [Ed.] (1936) The Valiant Muse: An Anthology of Poems by Poets Killed in The First World War. Great Neck, New York: Granger Book Co. Inc. 160 pp.

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    Replies
    1. I should add that it was your blog entry that allowed my daughter to find the full poem

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    2. Nice to hear from you, Greg. I think it’s fine to post the entire poem here. Since its publication dates from 1918, and its author has been dead a bit longer still, it should be in the public domain in both the U.S. and U.K.

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  5. Geoffrey Bache Smith

    The Burial of Sophocles



    The First Verses

    Gather great store of roses, crimson-red
    From ancient gardens under summer skies:
    New opened buds, and some that soon must shed
    Their leaves to earth, that all expectant lies;
    Some from the paths of poets’ wandering,
    Some from the places where young lovers meet,
    Some from the seats of dreamers pondering,
    And all most richly red, and honey-sweet.

    For in the splendour of the afternoon,
    When sunshine lingers in the glittering town
    And glorifies the temples wondrous-hewn
    All set about it like a deathless crown,
    We will go mingle with the solemn throng,
    With neither eyes that weep, nor hearts that bleed,
    That to his grave with slow, majestic song
    Bears down the latest of the godlike seed.

    Many a singer lies on the distant isle
    Beneath the canopy of changing sky:
    Around them waves innumerable smile,
    And o’er their head the restless seabirds cry:
    But we will lay him far from sound of seas,
    Far from the jutting crags’ unhopeful gloom,
    Where there blows never wind save summer breeze,
    And where the growing rose may clasp his tomb.

    And thither in the splendid nights of spring,
    When stars in legions over heaven are flung,
    Shall come the ancient gods, all wondering
    Why he sings not that had so richly sung:
    There Heracles with peaceful foot shall press
    The springing herbage, and Hephæstus strong,
    Hera and Aphrodite’s loveliness,
    And the great giver of the choric song.

    And thither, after weary pilgrimage,
    From unknown lands beyond the hoary wave,
    Shall travellers through every coming age
    Approach to pluck a blossom from his grave:
    Some in the flush of youth, or in the prime,
    Whose life is still as heapèd gold to spend,
    And some who have drunk deep of grief and time,
    And who yet linger half-afraid the end.

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  6. The Interlude

    It was upon a night of spring,
    Even the time when first do sing
    The new-returned nightingales;
    Whenas all hills and woods and dales
    Are resonant with melody
    Of songs that die not, but shall be
    Unto the latest hour of time
    Beyond the life of word or rime—
    Whenas all brooks more softly flow
    Remembering lovers long ago
    That stood upon their banks and vowed,
    And love was with them like a cloud:
    There came one out of Athens town
    In a spun robe, with sandals brown,
    Just when the white ship of the moon
    Had first set sail, and many a rune
    Was written in the argent stars;
    His feet were set towards the hills
    Because he knew that there the rills
    Ran down like jewels, and fairy cars
    Galloped, maybe, among the dells,
    And airy sprites wove fitful spells
    Of gossamer and cold moonshine
    Which do most mistily entwine:
    And ever the hills called, and a voice
    Cried: “Soon, maybe, comes thy choice
    Twixt mortal immortality
    Such as shall never be again,
    ‘Twixt the most passionate-pleasant pain
    And all the quiet, barren joys
    That old men prate about to boys.”
    . . . . . . . . . . . .
    He wandered many nights and days—
    Whose morns were always crystal clear,
    As lay the world in still amaze
    Enchanted of the springing year,
    And all the nights with wakeful eyes
    Watched for another dawn to rise—
    Till at the last the mountain tops
    Received him, which like giant props
    Stand, lest the all-encircling sky
    Fall down, and men be crushed and die.
    And so he reached a curvèd hill
    Whereon the hornèd moon did seem
    Her richest radiance to spill
    In an inestimable stream,
    Like jewels rare of countless price,
    Or wizard magic turned to ice.
    . . . . . . . . . . . .
    And as he reached the topmost crest of it,
    Lo! The Olympian majesties did sit
    In a most high and passionless conclave:
    They ate ambrosia with their deathless lips,
    And ever and anon the golden wave
    Flowed of the drink divine, which only strips
    This mortal frame of its mortality.
    And there, and there was Aphrodite, she
    That is more lovely than the golden dawn
    And from a ripple of the sea was born:
    And there was Hera, the imperious queen,
    And Dian’s chastity, that hunts unseen
    What time with spring the woodland boughs are green:
    And there was Pan with mirth and pleasantness,
    And Eros’ self that never knew distress
    Save for the love of the fair Cretan maid;
    There Hermes with the wings of speed arrayed,
    And awful Zeus, the king of gods and men,
    And ever at his feet Apollo sang
    A measure of changing harmonies that rang
    From that high mountain over all the world,
    And all the sails of fighting ships were furled,
    And men drew breath, and there was peace again.
    But him that saw, the sight like flame,
    Or depths of waters overcame:
    He swooned, nor heard how ceased the choir
    Of strings upon Apollo’s lyre,
    Nor saw he how the sweet god stood
    And smiled on him in kindly mood,
    And stopped, and kissed him as he lay;
    Then lightly rose and turned away
    To join the bright immortal throng
    And make for them another song.

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  7. The Last Verses

    O ageless nonpareil of stars
    That shinest through a mist of cloud,
    O light beyond the prison bars
    Remote, unwavering, and proud;
    Fortunate star and happy light,
    Ye benison, the gloom of night.

    All hail, unfailing eye and hand,
    All hail, all hail, unsilenced voice,
    That makest dead men understand,
    The very dead in graves rejoice:
    Whose utterance, writ in ancient books,
    Shall always live, for him that looks.

    Many as leaves from autumn trees
    The years shall flutter from on high,
    And with their multiple decease
    The souls of men shall fall and die,
    Yet, while the empires turn to dust,
    You shall live on, because you must.

    O seven times happy he that dies
    After the splendid harvest-tide,
    When strong barns shield from winter skies
    The grain that’s rightly stored inside:
    There death shall scatter no more tears
    Than o’er the falling of the years:

    Aye, happy seven times is he
    Who enters not the silent doors
    Before his time, but tenderly
    Death beckons unto him, because
    There’s rest within for weary feet
    Now all the journey is complete.

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  8. I have also been trying, unsuccessfully, to find a copy of the book, so I am excited to hear about this new edition! Hopefully it will be available soon!

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  9. Jason, have you heard any more about Doug's edition?

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  10. Jason, have you heard any more about Doug's edition?

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  11. No, I haven't. But this is a good prod for me to go and ask him about it again. :)

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