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Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 2, April 9, 1870 by Various

V >> Various >> Punchinello, Vol. 1, No. 2, April 9, 1870

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* * * * *

[Illustration: Vol. 1. No. 2.]

PUNCHINELLO


SATURDAY, APRIL 9, 1870.


PUBLISHED BY THE


PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,


83 NASSAU STREET, NEW-YORK.


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PUNCHINELLO April 9, 1870

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THE UMBRELLA. A VIEW OF THE SHADY SIDE OF LIFE.

A ripe pippin falling upon the head of Sir ISAAC NEWTON (a clear case of
hard cider on the brain) suggested the laws of gravitation. An elderly
countryman passing my window this clear bright day, attended by his
faithful umbrella, suggested the following reflections.

The term Umbrella comes from the Latin _umbra_, a shade--the whole
signifying "keep shady."

This definition well describes the nature of the article; for, as it
undoubtedly "keeps shady" in fine weather when the sun is fervent, so it is
apt to "keep shady" in rainy weather, when most wanted.

It is as difficult to say when the umbrella came, or where it came from, as
it is to tell where it goes to. Rumor hath it, however, that it came in
(that is, out of the rain) with NOAH. The story (as given us by an
antiquarian relative) says that when the Ark was built the camelopard was
forgotten, and it was found necessary to cut a hole in the roof to
accommodate the animal's neck. This done, SHEM sat upon the roof and held
an umbrella. SHEM thus _raised_ the umbrella. Then our further
question follows, Where did he raise it? Evidently he raised the umbrella
on the Ark.

These theories seem to us to be entitled to serious consideration; and
certainly it is a reasonable belief that, as the present suffering from the
high price of clothing is due to the sin of our first parents, so the
umbrella is the curse entailed by royalty, coming in with the First Reign
spoken of in history.

The umbrella appears again in ancient time in connection with DANIEL, who,
it is said, carried one into the lions' den. The authority for this is a
historical painting that has fallen into the hands of an itinerant showman.
A curious fact is stated with reference to this picture, namely, that
DANIEL so closely resembled the lions in personal appearance that it was
necessary for the showman to state that "DANIEL might easily be
distinguished from the lions on account of the blue cotton umbrella under
his right arm."

For what purpose this umbrella may have been carried we can only surmise.

The most probable theory is, that it was to be used there to intimidate the
lions, as it has since been used toward mad bulls and other ferocious
beasts.

We have now taken hold pretty firmly of what may be called the handle of
the umbrella. We have learned that, as ADAM raised CAIN, NOAH raised the
umbrella, and DANIEL carried one.

We have learned further that the umbrella carried by DANIEL was a blue
cotton umbrella--undoubtedly the most primitive type of the umbrella.

It is one of this class that your country friend brings down with him, that
darkeneth the heavens as with a canopy and maketh you ashamed of your
company. It is such an umbrella as this that is to be found or might have
been found, in ancient days, in every old farm-house--one that covered the
whole household when it went to church, occupying as much room when closed
as would the tent of an Arab.

We have heard it said that it was the impossibility of two umbrellas of
this nature passing each other on a narrow road which led to the invention
of covered wagons.

There is nothing lovely about a blue cotton umbrella, though there may have
been _under_ it at times and seasons. Skeletons of the species, much
faded as to color, much weakened as to whalebone, may still be found here
and there in backwoods settlements, where they are known as "umbrells;"
there are but few perfect specimens in existence.

The present style of the umbrella is varied, and sometimes elegant. The
cover is of silk; the ribs are of steel oftener than of bone, and the
handle is wrought into divers quaint and beautiful shapes. The most common
kind is the _hooked umbrella_. Most people have hooked umbrellas--or,
if this statement be offensive to any one, we will say that most people
have had umbrellas hooked. The chance resemblance of this expression to one
signifying to obstruct illegally that which properly belongs to another,
reminds us to speak of the singular fact that the umbrella is not property.
This is important. It rests on judicial decision, and becomes more
important when we remember that by similar decision the negro is property,
and that, therefore, until emancipation, the umbrella was superior to the
negro. The judicial decision cited will be found reported in _Vanity
Fair_, liber 3, page 265, and was on this wise: A man being arraigned
for stealing an umbrella, pleaded that it rained at the time, and he had no
umbrella. On these grounds he was discharged, and the judge took the
umbrella. (We may notice here how closely this decision has been followed,
even down to modern times, and touching other matters than umbrellas.)

This established the fact that the umbrella was not property that could be
bought, sold, and stolen, but a free gift of the manufacturer to universal
creation. The right of ownership in umbrellas ranked henceforward with our
right to own the American continent, being merely a right by discovery.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

* * * * *



Depressing for Chicago.


The Chicago press has given up all hopes of the PRINCE OF WALES since he
has proved his innocence in regard to Lady MORDAUNT. Chicago had begun to
look upon him with mildly patronizing favor, when he was accused of a share
in a really first-class divorce case; but now that his innocence is
established, there is no longer any extenuating circumstance which can
induce Chicago to overlook the infamous crime of his royal birth.

* * * * *

Latest from the Isthmus of Suez.


Of all men, the followers of MOHAMMED are the most candid; since no matter
of what you accuse them, they always acknowledge the Koran.

* * * * *

Right and Left.

Because the P.& O. Directors have suspended their EYRE, we are not called
upon to suspend our anger. We decline to believe that he can justify
himself in leaving the Oneida, however blameless he may have been in the
matter of the collision. Because the Oneida was Left it does not follow
that the Bombay was Right.

[ILLUSTRATION:_Mr. Pugsby_. "I THINK, MY DEAR, WE'VE GIVEN HIM
LAUDANUM ENOUGH. SUPPOSE WE TRY A LITTLE STRYCHNINE?"

_Mrs. Pugsby_. "BUT MIGHTN'T THAT HURT HIM?"]

* * * * *

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

[Illustration]

Mr. BOUCICAULT might properly be called the author of the elementary Drama.
Not because his plays, like elementary lessons in French, are peculiarly
aggravating to the well-regulated mind, but because of his fondness for
employing one of the elements of nature--fire, water, or golden hair--in
the production of the sensation which invariably takes place in the fourth
or fifth act of each of his popular dramas. In the _Streets of
New-York_, he made a hit by firing a building at the spectacularly
disposed audience. In _Formosa_, he gave us a boat-race; and in
_Lost at Sea_, now running at WALLACK'S, he has renewed his former
fondness for playing with fire. The following condensed version of this
play is offered to the readers of PUNCHINELLO, with the assurance that,
though it may be a little more coherent than the unabridged edition, it is
a faithful picture of the sort of thing that Mr. BOUCICAULT, aided and
abetted by Mr. WALLACK, thinks proper to offer to the public.

* * * * *

LOST AT SEA.


ACT I. _Scene_ 1. _Enter Virtuous Banker_. "I have embezzled
WALTER CORAM'S money, and he is coming from India to claim it. I am a
ruined man."

_Enter Unprincipled Clerk_. "Not so. WALTER CORAM is lost at sea, and
we will keep the money."

_Virtuous Banker_. "Thank heaven! I am not found out, and can remain
an honest man as usual."

_Scene_ 2. _Enter Comic Villain_. "I am just released from prison
and must soon meet my wife." (_Swears and smashes in his hat_.)

_Enter Unprincipled Clerk_. "Not so. WALTER, CORAM is lost at sea.
Personate him, draw his money, and share it with me."

_Comic Villain_. "I will." (_Swears and smashes in his hat_.)

_Scene_ 3. _Enter Miss Effie Germon_. (Aside.) "I am supposed to
be a virtuous and vagabond boy. I hate to show my ankles in ragged
trowsers, but I must." (_Shows them. Applause_)

_Enter Daughter of Comic Villain_. "I love the unprincipled clerk; but
there is a sick stranger up-stairs who pokes the fire in a way that I can
hardly resist. Be firm, my heart. Shall I be untrue to my own unprincipled
-----"

_Enter Unprincipled Clerk_. "Not so. WALTER CORAM is lost at sea, and
I must leave these valuable boxes in your hands for safe-keeping."
(_Leaves the boxes, and then leaves himself_.)

_Enter Sick Stranger_. "I am WALTER CORAM. Those are my boxes.
Somebody is personating me. Big thing on somebody. Let him go ahead."
(_Curtain_.)

* * * * *

_Young Lady in the Audience_. "Isn't EFFIE GERMON perfectly lovely?"

_Accompanying Bostonian Youth_. "Yes; but you should see RISTORI in
_Marie Antoinette_. There is a sweetness and light about the great
tragedienne which -----"

_Heavy old Party, to contiguous Young Man_. "Don't think much of this;
do you? Now, in TOM PLACIDS's day----" _Contiguous and aggrieved Young
Man pleads an engagement and hastily goes out_.

ACT II. _Scene_ 1. _Virtuous Banker's Villa, Comic Villain,
Unprincipled Clerk, and Wealthy Heroine dining with the Banker_.

_Enter Original Coram_. "I am WALTER CORAM; but I can't prove it, the
villains having stolen my bootjack."

_Enter Comic Villain, who smashes in his hat, and swears_.

_Original Coram. (Approaching him_.) "This is WALTER CORAM, I believe?
I knew you in India. We boarded together. Don't you remember old FUTTYGHUR
ALLAHABAD, and the rest of our set?"

_Comic Villain, in great mental torture_. "Certainly; of course: I
said so at the time." (_Swears and smashes in his hat_.) (_Exeunt
omnes, in search of Virtuous Banker_.)

_Scene_ 2. _Enter Miss Effie Germon, by climbing over the wall_.
"I hate to climb over the wall and show my ankles in these nasty trowsers,
but I must." (_Shows them. Applause_.)

_Enter Daughter of Comic Villain_. "Great Heavings! What do I see? My
beloved clerk offering himself to the wealthy heroine? I must faint!"
(_Faints_.)

_Enter aristocratic lover of wealthy heroine, and catches the faintress
in his arms. Wealthy heroine catches him in the act. Tableau of virtuous
indignation_. (_Curtain_)

* * * * *

_Young Lady before-named_. "Isn't EFFIE GERMON perfectly sweet?"

_Bostonian Youth_. "Yes; but RISTORI----"

_Mighty Young Men_. "Let's go out for drinks."


ACT III. _Scene_ 1. _Enter Daughter of Comic Villain_. "My clerk
is false, and I don't care a straw for him. Consequently, I will drown
myself."

_Enter Original Coram_. "I am WALTER CORAM; but I can't prove it, the
villains having stolen my Calcutta latch-key. Better not drown yourself, my
dear. You'll find it beastly wet. Don't do it." (_She doesn't do it_.)
(_Curtain_.)

* * * * *

_Young Lady before-named_. "Isn't EFFIE GERMON perfectly beautiful?"

_Bostonian Youth_. "Yes. But at her age RISTORI----"

_Heavy old Party murmurs in his sleep of ELLEN TREE. More young men go
out to get drinks_.


ACT IV. _Scene_ 1. _Enter Virtuous Banker_. "All is lost. There
is a run on the bank -----"

_Enter Unprincipled Clerk_. "WALTER CORAM presents check for L7 4 S.
We have no funds. Shall we pay it?"

_Enter Original Coram_. (_Aside_.) "I am WALTER CORAM; but I
can't prove it, the villains having taken my other handkerchief. (_To the
Banker_.) Sir, you once gave me a penny, and you have since embezzled my
fortune. How can I repay such noble conduct? Here is a bag of gold. Take it
and pay your creditors."

_Scene_ 2. _Enter Unprincipled Clerk and Comic Villain_.

_Unprincipled Clerk_. "The original CORAM has turned up. We must turn
him down again. I will burn him in his bed to-night."

_Comic Villain_. "Burn him; but don't attempt any violence." (_Swears
and smashes in his hat_.)

_Scene_ 4. _Enter Original Coram_. "I am WALTER COHAM; but I
can't prove it--I forget precisely why. What is this in my coffee? Opium!
It is, by SIVA, VISHNU, and others! They would fain drug my drink. Ha! Ha!
I have drank, eaten, smoked, chewed, and snuffed opium for ninety years. I
like it. So did my parents. I am, so to speak, the child of poppy. Ha! What
do I see? Flames twenty feet high all around me! Can this be fire? The
wretches mean to burn me alive! (_Aside_--And they'll do it too, some
night, if Moss don't keep a sharp look-out after those lazy carpenters.)"

_Enter Miss Effie German_. (_Aside_.) "I must get on the roof and
drag CORAM out. I hate to do it; for I shall have to show my ankles in
these horrid trowsers. But I suppose I must." (_Gets on the roof with
Comic Villain's Daughter, shows ankles, lifts up roof and saves Coram, amid
whirlwinds of applause and smoke.--Curtain_)

* * * * *

_Young Lady before-named_. "Isn't EFFIE GERMON _too_ lovely?"

_Bostonian Youth_. "Yes. RISTORI is, however -----"

_Heavy old Party_. "This fire business is dangerous, sir. Never saw it
done at the old Park. EDMUND KEAN would -----"

ACT V. _Enter Original Coram_. "I am WALTER CORAM. I can now prove it
by simply mentioning the fact. I love the daughter of the Comic Villain,
and will marry her."

_Unprincipled Clerk_. "All is lost except WALTER CORAM, who ought to
be. I will go to Australia, at once." (_He goes_.)

_Comic Villain_, (_smashes his hat over his eyes and swears_).

_Virtuous Banker_. "Bless you, my children. I forgive you all the
injuries I have done you." (_Curtain_.)

* * * * *

_Every body in the audience_. "How do you like--Real fire; STODDAHT'S
faces are--Real fire; EFFIE GERMON is--Real fire; Come and take--Real fire;
JIM WALLACK is always at home in--Real fire; There is nothing in the play
but--Real fire."

_Misanthropic Critic, to gentlemanly Treasurer_. "Can I have two seats
for to-morrow night?"

_Treasurer_. "All sold, sir. Play draws better than _Ours_!"

_Misanthropic Critic_. Well! no matter. I only wanted to send my
mother-in-law, knowing that the house must take fire some night. However,
I'll read the play to her instead; if she survives that, she isn't mortal.

* * * * *

_Suggestion kindly made to Manager Moss_.--Have the fire scene take
place in the first act, and let all the _dramatis personae_ perish in
the flames. Thus shall the audience be spared the vulgar profanity of
STODDART'S "Comic Villain," the absurdity of WALLACK'S "Coram," the twaddle
of HIELD'S "Virtuous Banker," and the impossible imbecility of FISHER'S
"Unprincipled Clerk." Miss GERMON in trowsers, and Miss HENRIQUES in tears,
are very nice; but they do not quite redeem the wretchedness of the play.
The sooner Mr. Moss gives up his present flame and returns to his early
love--legitimate comedy--the better.

MATADOR.

* * * * *

HOW TO BEHAVE AT A THEATRE.


MR. PUNCHINELLO: I take it you are willing to receive useful information.
Of course you are--Why? Because, while you may be humorous, you intend also
to be sensible. I have in my day been to the theatre not a little. I have
seen many plays and many audiences. I know--or, at least, think I do--what
is good acting, and--what good manners. Suffer me, then, briefly to give
you a few hints as to how an audience should behave. I shall charge nothing
for the information, though I am frank to insinuate that it is worth a
deal--of the value, perhaps, of a great deal table.

First. Always take a lady with you to the play. It will please her,
whatever the bother to you. Besides, you will then be talked to. If you
make a mess of it in trying to unravel the plot, she will essentially aid
you in that direction. Nothing like a woman for a plot--especially if you
desire to plunge head foremost into one.

Second. If you have any loud conversation to indulge in, do it while the
play is going on. Possibly it may disturb your neighbors; but you do not
ask them to hear it. Hail Columbia! isn't this a free country? If you have
any private and confidential affairs to talk over, the theatre is the place
in which to do it. Possibly strangers may not comprehend all the bearings;
but that is not your fault. You do your best--who can do better?

Third. If you have an overcoat or any other garment, throw it across the
adjoining or front seat. Never mind any protests of frown or word. Should
not people be willing to accommodate? Of course they should. Prove it by
putting your dripping umbrella against the lady with the nice moire antique
silk. It may ruffle her temper; but that's her business, not yours; she
shouldn't be ridiculous because well dressed.

Fourth. Try and drop your opera-glass half a dozen times of an evening. If
it makes a great racket--as of course it will--and rolls a score of seats
off, hasten at once to obtain possession of the frisky instrument. Let
these little episodes be done at a crisis in the play where the finest
points are being evolved.

Fifth. Of course you carry a cane--a very ponderous cane. What for? To use
it, obviously. Contrive to do so when every body is silent. What's the use
in being demonstrative in a crowd? It don't pay. Besides, you dog, you know
your _forte_ is in being odd. Odd fellow-you. See it in your
brain--only half of one. Make a point to bring down your cane when there is
none, (point, not cane,) and shout out "Good!" or "Bravo!" when you have
reason to believe other people are going to be quiet.

Sixth. Never go in till after a play begins, and invariably leave in the
middle of an act, and in the most engaging scene.

These are but a few hints. However, I trust they are good as far as they
go. I may send you a half-dozen more. In the mean time I remain

Yours, truly,

O. FOGY.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Elliott Kastner obituary

John Makinson says that if people want to read using new technology, that's what publishers must give them

Penguin this week celebrates its 75th year and is marking the anniversary by repackaging a series of seminal books from the 1960s to the 1980s. Although the company might afford itself a brief look backwards, it feels as though there is little room for nostalgia in book publishing now, as the industry turns its face firmly – and apprehensively – to the future.

Amazon last week announced sales of ebooks on its US site had outnumbered hardbacks for the first time, stunning casual observers, even if it had not been entirely unexpected in the trade.

The launch of the iPad has added a sense of urgency. Where music went first, books are set to follow, although Penguin and other publishers would hope without the same devastating effects. Amazon this week launched a cheaper, more lightweight version of its Kindle ebook reader and a digital store on its UK site, while others, including Google, are muscling in. Digital book sales are still less than 1% of Penguin, but the direction of the market is clear. In the US, digital books already account for 6% of consumer sales.

Penguin chief executive John Makinson says he is a convert. The day after we meet he is on his way to India, as part of David Cameron's delegation, and had loaded titles on to his iPad, including a manuscript by John le Carré and some Portuguese classics (in English) ahead of Penguin launching a range in Brazil. He is also reading Lord Mandelson's diary. It simply makes sense, he says, instead of carting an armful of books in your carry-on luggage.

Innovation

"It does redefine what we do as publishers and I feel, compared with most of my counterparts, more optimistic about what this means for us," he says. "Of course there are issues around copyright protection and there are worries around pricing and around piracy, royalty rates and so on, but there is also this huge opportunity to do more as publishers."

Publishing, he says, must embrace innovation: "I am keen on the idea that every book that we put on to an iPad has an author interview, a video interview, at the beginning. I have no idea whether this is a good idea or not. There has to be a culture of experimentation, which doesn't come naturally to book publishers. We publish a lot of historians, for example. They love the idea of using documentary footage to illustrate whatever it is they're writing about."

The very definition of a book is up for grabs he says, although the company has just published a version of Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth for the iPad in the US that might provide clues – and horrify traditionalists. It includes scenes from a TV adaptation embedded in the text, as well as extras including the show's music soundtrack and Follett's video diary during the making of the series.

For now, Makinson says, digital books are expanding the market; hardback sales in the US are up this year, despite the march of ebooks. Piracy is not yet a significant issue and lessons have been learned from the music business.

"You have to give the consumer what the consumer wants – you can't tell the consumer to go away. So we didn't participate in this experiment where a number of publishers deferred publication of the ebook until a certain number of months after the hardcover publication. I thought that was a very bad idea. If the consumer wants to buy a book in an electronic format now, you should let the consumer have it."

He has added confidence, because with tablets such as the iPad, consumers are used to paying a subscription to the wireless operator and for "apps", creating a more benign environment than the wild west of the PC, where users are used to getting everything for free.

Penguin's profits more than doubled to £44m in the first half of the year. The company gained market share, but one reason for the dramatic improvement was the outsourcing of some design and production to India last year; the company now has around 100 designers in Delhi making books for Dorling Kindersley, belying the idea that Britain can at least live off its creative industries. Makinson defends the decision and says DK is now back in profit, which means it can reinvest in Britain: "We can't pretend we can do everything here. In order to be internationally competitive, some work needs to be done in other places."

About 8% of the publisher's sales are from its classics, including Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, and revenues are still growing, despite much of the copyright being in the public domain. It is launching the range in Mandarin, Korean and Portuguese. But it is not all highbrow. What would Penguin's founder, Sir Allen Lane, whose aim was to publish quality paperbacks for the masses, have made of Penguin putting out books "by" Peter Andre or Ant & Dec?

"Allen Lane's view was that we should publish good writing of all kinds for all audiences at affordable prices," Makinson says. "I'm not saying he would necessarily have approved every single publishing decision we take, but would he have approved of Penguin being a very democratic publishing company, publishing for lots of different tastes? I think he would definitely have approved."

Makinson has long been mentioned as a successor to Dame Marjorie Scardino, who runs Pearson, Penguin's parent company. Her departure has been a perennial question, though she has defied the investment community's chattering classes by staying in her post for well over a decade. She has also confounded expectations by keeping Penguin and the Financial Times in a group dominated by educational publishing. Makinson says it now makes more sense than ever for Penguin to remain part of the group, as the digital era draws each division closer.

He says there will still be the need for publishers in the digital world: "I used to have this discussion with [Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy author] Douglas Adams. He created this thing called the digital village, an online publishing platform. Douglas's argument was, 'all of my friends will come along and publish on digital village and you the publishers will be disintermediated, you will be irrelevant'. Well, it hasn't happened. I am not aware of any successful direct to consumer publishing model that exists.

"The reason it doesn't work is that the publishers do actually perform quite a useful service: they edit the book, then they publicise it." In the physical world, they make sure it is stocked in bookshops, he adds.

Clubbable

Makinson, 55, perhaps feels more adaptable than some of his counterparts because he arrived at Penguin as an outsider. A clubbable character, he has taken an unusual career path, from a journalist on the Financial Times, to working for the Saatchis, setting up his own investment consultancy, running the Financial Times and then becoming Pearson finance director, despite having no training as an accountant.

But his passion for books is evident. Five years ago, he and his brother bought a bookshop in the small Norfolk town of Holt. For an out-of-the-way independent, the Holt Bookshop attracts a starry line-up of authors for events, including Stephen Fry, due to talk about his new autobiography, which, perhaps not surprisingly, is published by Penguin.

"We are all terribly sentimental about books," Makinson insists. "It is terribly important to me that we sell lots of wonderful books in my little independent in Norfolk, and when I talk about digital I do sometimes worry that it looks as though I am neglecting all this," he points to the books on the shelves behind him, "which I am not."

CV

Born: 1954, Derby.

Education: Graduated from Cambridge with honours in English and History.

Career: 1976-1979, journalist, Reuters; 1979-1986, journalist, Financial Times; 1986-1989, vice-chairman, Saatchi & Saatchi; 1989-1994, co-founder of capital markets advisory firm Makinson Cowell; 1994-1996, managing director, Financial Times; 1996-2002, finance director, Pearson; 2002-present, chairman and chief executive Penguin Books.

Other interests: chairman of the Institute for Public Policy Research, a director of the National Theatre and of the International Rescue Committee, a humanitarian organisation.

Family: Married with two daughters.


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The nostalgia narrative now aches to a different tune | John Freeman

Late-flowering writer of biographies and children's books

Verily Anderson, who has died aged 95, published more than 30 books – memoirs, biographies, children's stories and work ranging from personal reminiscences to Shakespeare scholarship and 10 Brownie books. She was a late starter: her breakthrough as a writer came in 1956, at the age of 41, when she published Spam Tomorrow, a deft and frequently uproarious account of her wartime experiences on the home front. Critics hailed it as a new kind of memoir, one of the first to explore the lives of women in wartime.

Before the success of Spam Tomorrow, she led a life that was colourful but frequently impecunious. Born in Edgbaston, Birmingham, the fourth of five children of the Rev Rosslyn Bruce and his wife Rachel (nee Gurney), Verily was always certain that she wanted to be a writer. As children, she and her brothers edited and wrote a nursery magazine which they called the News of the World. Verily's haphazard schooling ranged from a few years at Edgbaston high school for girls to being taught at home by her mother, to a brief and unsuccessful stint at the Royal College of Music in London. She said she worked at "100 different jobs" (including writing advertising copy, illustrating sweet papers and working as a chauffeur) before the outbreak of the second world war, when she enlisted with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, on the grounds that if there were going to be a war, it would be "less frightening to be in the middle of things".

During the war she met Donald Anderson, a writer who specialised in military history. They married in 1940 and had five children. With his encouragement, she made a precarious living as a freelance writer, while papering her lavatory walls with rejection slips received from publishers for her book projects. Her persistence was at last rewarded with the success of Spam Tomorrow – and a further half-decade on the bestseller lists. These years included a film adaptation of her 1958 memoir, Beware of Children, called No Kidding and starring Leslie Phillips and Geraldine McEwan (1960).

Donald died in 1956, and by the mid-60s Verily was again struggling financially. She was rescued by the actor Joyce Grenfell. They had struck up a friendship when Verily interviewed Grenfell for the BBC. Grenfell was so shocked at the conditions she found Verily living in that she bought her a home in Northrepps, a village in Norfolk, where she stayed for the rest of her life, writing dozens more books (including the critically acclaimed The Northrepps Grandchildren in 1968) and glorying in the role of matriarch to an ever-expanding family of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. When Verily married Paul Paget, architect and surveyor to the fabric of St Paul's Cathedral, in 1971, Grenfell was matron of honour.

In 2008 I conducted what turned out to be Verily's last interview. Letting myself in after some fruitless bell-ringing, I followed the sounds of a piano to her study door. "Oh my dear," she said, looking up at my knock. "There you are. Now – shall we have a gin, before we start?"

I had already heard all about Verily through her daughter, my friend the writer Janie Hampton, and so had a good idea what to expect. Janie's main piece of advice on hearing that we were going to meet was: "Whatever you do, don't let her pick you up from the station – she's half-blind." She also said: "Don't eat any of the cake she offers. She's always got some, and it's always about five weeks old."

Verily did have cake and it was past its best – but Verily definitely was not. She regaled me with anecdotes. I came away with the image of a woman with a twinkle in her eye, who after eight decades of writing was still full of energy and enthusing about her latest project. This – a memoir of the time she spent at Herstmonceux Castle, Sussex, in the 1930s and 40s – was completed the day before she died.

Verily is survived by her children, Marian, Rachel, Eddie, Janie and Alexandra, 16 grandchildren, 14 great-grandchildren – and Alfie, her beloved RNIB guide-dog.

• Verily Anderson, writer, born 12 January 1915, died 16 July 2010


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Tom Stoppard returns to BBC with Ford Madox Ford adaptation

The American literary genre of you can't go home again – that fertile ground farmed by Faulkner, Twain and Kerouac – has in the last half-century found a new voice abroad

At six foot, six inches tall, Thomas Wolfe had trouble entering most rooms. But he also had a problem with going back through them, especially if they led to the past. He had told too many truths – and too many lies – about where he came from in North Carolina.

In his posthumous 1940 novel, You Can't Go Home Again, he gave Americans a literary catchphrase for the pain so many of us who wind up far from where we grew up feel acutely.

After all, in the case of many Americans, if you leave the provinces only to return home, you are marked as a failure. At the very least, you run the risk of finding that flight has spoiled any fond memories you managed to smuggle out.

Think of the successful ad-man hero of John Updike's The Farm, who returns to his family's crumbling Pennsylvania farm for an emotionally fraught visit, or Quentin Compson of William Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom, shivering in his dorm room at Harvard, who begins his defence of the American south with the ringing endorsement, "I don't hate it ... I don't hate it."

This thread of conflicted nostalgia is strongest in America's most autobiographical novelists, especially the ones who had to leave to write but continuously dial back the past in their work: writers such as Jack Kerouac, who frantically travelled America, but wrote most of his later books about Lowell, while living with his mother in Queens and Florida.

Then there's Mark Twain, whose autobiography appears in the new issue of Granta, who rose out of Missouri and saw the world, but settled in Hartford, Connecticut in a white mansion that everyone around him could see looked exactly like a river steamboat.

But like so many things America feels it has invented, from democracy to baseball, the you-can-never-go-home again narrative is hardly unique to it. In fact, in the last half-century (and especially in the last 20 years, as diaspora writers from the Dominican Republic to Nigeria to India and Pakistan have emerged as some of our most vigorous storytellers), nostalgia – which is a combination of "returning home" and "ache" – has taken on a different texture.

In Granta's new issue, there's a story by the Sudanese writer Leila Aboulela, about a young man who has come to London from Khartoum to study mathematics. His mother, who worries he will never return, arranges for him to marry a devout Muslim wife – a move which backfires when she comes to London and reminds him of everything he left behind. Chimamanda Adichie, meanwhile, has a story about a Nigerian "big man" whose life is turned upside down when his ex-girlfriend announces she has come back to Lagos. As he speculates about the reasons for her return, Adichie's hero worries whether he has sacrificed something essential in his rise to the top.

In stories like these, not to mention the novels of Monica Ali or Kiran Desai or Uzma Aslam Khan, the export duty to elsewhere is high. The past isn't just the past – it's another country. And for reasons political and personal, there is no going back.


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