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Joyce and the Building of Ithaca

By the time most authors have collected and arranged their notes, struggled through the writing of rough drafts, and made a fair copy, their creative labor is usually nearly or entirely done. For James Joyce, completion of the first fair copy was just a good beginning. After finishing the basic version of an episode or chapter, he adopted what may be called an accretive method of composition. Each successive version became a new foundation on which to erect additional superstructure. The virgin margins of copybooks, typescript pages, and proofsheets were irresistible invitations to violation. Little was changed, still less was deleted; additions, usually flowering from seeds in his rough notes, filled those margins. Close inspection of this accretive process in any one episode, particularly in the later, more complex work, can be eminently rewarding. We may see not only how Joyce worked, but, far more important, why he worked as he did, for examination of his methods of composition throws new light on artistic purpose, style, humor, and symbolism. A good specimen for study is the seventeenth chapter of Ulysses, Ithaca -that seventy-two-page question-and-answer episode in which Leopold Bloom, at about two o'clock in the morning of 17 June 1904, returns home accompanied by his wonderful friend, as Joyce's notes refer to Stephen Dedalus. The building of Ithaca, Joyce's own favorite chapter and the last to be written (the concluding Penelope episode was completed several months earlier), went through at least nine successive stages. First there are the rough notes, a staggering accumulation of more than two thousand separate entries for this one episode alone, ranging from single words to short paragraphs, now in the British Museum and the Lockwood Memorial Library at the University of Buffalo. The initial rough draft is missing,

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BOOKSELLING TO UNIVERSITIES

‘The library founded by the first Ptolemies was in the most splendid district in the city … where a number of scholars were maintained at public expense in order to devote themselves entirely to the pursuit of knowledge.’ The University of Alexandria acquired most of its books by the simple process of appropriating all that came into the city; these Ptolemy caused to be copied and a fair copy returned to the owner. Many university librarians must envy the Alexandrians not only the ‘most splendid district in the city’, but also this method of acquiring books. Even at that time there were booksellers in Athens, and the need for a middle man was being recognized, a need that I am sure no university librarian would dispute today.

TWO GEORGIAN CLASSICS: ARNE AND STEVENS

THE Georgian period saw a very considerable outpouring of Shakespearean music. Practically every new revival of the plays brought some fresh addition to the growing corpus of 'traditional' Shakespeare music, and as often as not some bogus variant of the poetry as well, for eighteenth-century actor-managers, although they paid endless lip-service to 'The Bard', were almost as resolute in their determination to bring him up-to-date as certain modern conductors have been in performances of Handel. One fascinating point is that even the least talented of composers seemed to rise above himself when setting the Shakespearean lyrics, and many a fifth-rate eighteenth-century composer produced at least one good Shakespeare setting, for solo or ensemble voices. Most of that music is now forgotten, after being in general use for a century or more and finding its way into the various nineteenth-century anthologies of 'Music for Shakespeare'. But there were two Georgian composers whose Shakespearean music is still being generally sung. I refer to Thomas Augustine Ame (I7IO-I778) and Richard John Samuel Stevens (1757-I837). Arne is world-famous, and is so almost as much for his settings of 'Under the greenwood tree' or 'Blow, blow thou winter wind' as for 'Rule, Britannia'. Stevens is not so wellknown by name, but there are many to whom 'Ye spotted snakes' or 'Sigh no more, ladies' or 'The cloud-cap't towers' are hauntingly familiar, although they might not be able to name the composer. One can hardly imagine a greater contrast between two contemporary musicians than that presented by Arne and his young acquaintance Stevens. Arne was careless and casual, but richly gifted and a prolific composer. Stevens was careful and painstaking, with a thin thread of talent which he used sparingly, usually referring to musical composition as 'study'. If all Arne's autograph full scores could be recovered from the dustbin of time they would make almost as brave a showing on the library shelf as those of Handel, in quantity if nothing else; but he seems to have taken as little care of his scores as he did of his money. Stevens, on the other hand, was tidiness personified and left careful fair copies of all his musical i46

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The Naming of Australia: A Revised View

Every Australian schoolboy recognizes Matthew Flinders, Commander of H.M.S. Investigator, as the British seaman who first circumnavigated his island continent; the captain who drilled his red-coated marines on the beach to the immense delight of the natives. Few, if any, however, realize the extent to which Flinders was responsible for naming Australia. His part has been studied, but has remained clouded with doubt. It is believed that this note, based upon his unpublished Journal,1 may establish his contribution. The chronicle of Flinders' voyage can be briefly told. Following a successful running survey of the south and east coasts in 1801-2, he set out to work along the north coast via the Barrier Reef and Torres Strait. Evidence of rotting timbers forced abandonment of the project and a retreat to Port Jackson by way of Leeuwin, thus completing the famous circumnavigation. A fruitless and disastrous attempt to resume operations led Flinders ultimately to Mauritius (then the lie de France) where he and his crew were summarily interned by Napoleon's commandant, General Charles De Caen. The capture occurred in December 1803, and Flinders remained at Mauritius until a British squadron took the island in 1810. Almost immediately after his capture, Flinders began a systematic study of the hydrographic data he had collected. His objective, of course, was to prepare fair copies of his charts; and at the same time to relieve the boredom of his captivity. It appears that Flinders had given little thought during the actual survey to assigning proper names to the distinctive configurations of the coastline, with a few exceptions, such as the designation of Cape Catastrophe. Indeed, even in the smooth Log he normally used only the symbols common to surveying. He evidently decided upon most of the 250 place-names he gave to the map, including Australia, during his imprisonment. It is to the Journal that one must turn for the first formal and public proposal that a new name be found for New Holland?New South Wales. The Lords Commis? sioners of the Admiralty had instructed Flinders to file interim reports on the progress of his survey.2 Accordingly, when John Aken, second Master of the Investigator, and fellow-captive, received notice of his imminent release, Flinders feverishly began com? pleting and assembling material for an Admiralty despatch. Aken took passage in the American ship James, bound for New York, on 20 May 1805, acting as private courier for this despatch. Flinders described the report in general terms: