Thursday, 5 February 2015

A ‘Difference of Mental Texture’: the Correspondence of Jack Clemo and A. L. Rowse

This article was written for The Cornish Banner and published January 2015. The Banner has kindly given permission for it to appear on my blog. All letters and diaries can be found in the University of Exeter's Special Collections Library. Thanks to Special Collections for permission to use the Clemo material and to the RCM for permission to use the Rowse material. 

                                                               (Paintings of Clemo and Rowse, by Lionel Miskin)

Two of the most indigestible writers of the twentieth century came from the St Austell area. A. L. Rowse was born at Tregonissey in 1903 and was the elder of the two. Jack Clemo was born during the Great War, in 1916, just a few miles west, at Goonamarris. As well as sharing a geography, Clemo and Rowse were both working class men, and both were confident of their genius. They also both produced autobiographies in the 1940s, Rowse in 1942 and Clemo in 1949. It was a productive decade for Cornish autobiographical writing, with J. C. Trewin and Anne Treneer adding to the list of regional life writing classics, with their respective Up from the Lizard (1948) and Schoolhouse in the Wind (1944). Rowse, Trewin and Treneer all engaged with Clemo in one way or another. Trewin had published Clemo’s work in his West Country Magazine, as well as writing about the young man in a series of self-conscious letters to and from his friend H. J. Willmott in the 1950 London-Bodmin. Anne Treneer, meanwhile, offered one of the more inappropriate, if predictable, reviews of Clemo’s poetry in the Cornish Review, admiring ‘the immense force of feeling’, but regretting that there was not more about ‘the singing of the larks’.[1]
      In spite of the similarities between Rowse and Clemo, they were in other ways worlds apart. Most glaring among their differences was the question of faith. Clemo’s faith was the core of his outlook, his optimism and hope, with Christ the grounding of all of his ambitions and expectations, whether romantic, literary or medical. Rowse, on the other hand, was an atheist. Clemo’s gonzo fundamentalism informed a quiet and nuanced stance on homosexuality [2] while A. L. Rowse was known to be gay. Clemo declared himself not only a poor academic, leaving school at the age of twelve due to illness (though officially at age thirteen due to bad results, poor attendance and the absence of any desire to continue), but he was also anti-academic and anti-intellectualism, a position explored in all of his non-fiction, most notably in The Invading Gospel. Rowse, on the other hand, was a proud and renowned academic by profession, a Doctor of Letters and Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford, as well as of the British Academy and Royal Society of Literature.
Reading Rowse’s diaries, one might not imagine Clemo had any impact on his life at all. He is scarcely mentioned. Nevertheless, when Clemo emerged onto the literary scene with a trilogy of remarkable works – the novel Wilding Graft, the autobiography Confession of a Rebel, and the collection of verse, The Clay Verge – the already established Rowse offered immediate support, writing on 31 March 1948.[3]

Dear Mr Clemo,

I thought of writing to you some months ago when I read a poem of yours that struck me very much. Since then, Mr Latham of the Macmillan Co. of New York has told me of your novel, which greatly impressed him, and wanted me to get in touch with you. He very much wants to know my impression of your novel – in case I may be able to help in putting it across over there. (I hope you don’t mind me putting it like that, for it is the book’s own remarkable quality that will carry it.)
      I have at last got hold of a copy and am enthralled by it. I am still in the midst of it, very much moved by it, especially by the character of Garth. That’s quite right, isn’t it? I am afraid I am a very unprofessional reader of novels and don’t think much of most contemporary ones. But I love this one. There are all sorts of things I long to ask you about it – if you can bear to have a meeting. Can you? I should very much like to meet you, if you are free one day this week. What about Saturday? Is that any good? I’d be delighted if you cared to ring up and fix it. The house is quite easy to find: five minutes walk along Porthpean Rd from the Duke of Cornwall. You may not want to come - which would make me sad, for I long to know about the book and you.
      Forgive the address: I don’t properly know your address.
      Yrs sincerely
      AL Rowse.[4]

That Rowse wanted Clemo to telephone him shows that he was unaware of the progression of Clemo’s disabilities – his continued deafness, weak heart and alarmingly failing sight being the most prominent at this time.
      The ‘Mr Latham’ of Rowse’s letter was Harold Latham, the Vice-President of the Macmillan publishing company. He wanted to publish Clemo’s Wilding Graft in the United States, though he did not like the title and wanted to change it to ‘Clays of Meledor’, a suggestion Clemo resisted. The importance of American interest to Clemo was enormous. He believed, to some extent, that America was his spiritual home, and in an unpublished poem he writes that if you, the reader, want to understand the roots of his story:

You must search the bleared West, its forensic night:
Prairies and headstocks, reeling streets.[5]

Clemo hoped and had faith in his transatlantic success. America was the root of his problems, he believed, and Providence might offer their remedy from the same source. Not long after Rowse’s first note, Clemo remarked in his diary: ‘I believe I’ll be like Browning more fully appreciated in the U.S. than in England.'[6]
      On 1 April, the day he received Rowse’s letter, Clemo recorded in his diary his surprise that the arch-atheist Rowse had enjoyed Wilding Graft: ‘I’ve had a letter from AL Rowse, more sympathetic than I expected’.[7] He replied that same day, ever punctual with his correspondence:

Dear Mr Rowse,

Many thanks for your appreciative letter regarding my novel Wilding Graft. I had feared that, if you did read the book you would be repelled by the “mystical religiosity” which has grieved some of its reviewers. But I think it’s obvious that I detest religious humbug as much as you do – I’m closer to Hardy and T.F. Powys than to conventional sectarian Christians, and in the character of Garth Joslin I’ve tried to suggest the only kind of faith I feel to be still valid. It’s an extreme, solitary vision, and I don’t suppose I’d have developed it had my education been normal. I finished my schooling at the age of 12 through an attack of blindness, and a few years later began to suffer deafness, which confirmed me in a ‘village hermit’ life of meditation similar to Powys’s. (The note in the current Bookman gives a general sketch of my life and temperament.) It is therefore impossible for me to make fresh contacts – I’m sorry to disappoint you, for I do appreciate your generosity and would gladly accept your invitation if I were still able to converse with anybody. This unrelieved loneliness is part of the price I’ve had to pay for my independence and for any originality that may exist in my work. All discussion of my writings with literary friends has to be done through correspondence. I’ve already supplied the MacMillan Co. – via my agents – with full biographical details for use in promoting the American edition of Wilding Graft, but I daresay your opinion of it would help them, as you are the only product of the clay district whose name carries any weight with the reading public. Anyway, I’m grateful for this personal message of appreciation.
Yours very sincerely,
Jack R. Clemo.[8]

Clemo was self-conscious about his disabilities. He had been practically deaf for well over a decade, and since 1947 his eyesight had been declining, with ever worsening spells during which his sight was so bad and the pain so great that he was ‘unable to read’, as he repeatedly noted in his diaries. Gradually, over the next few years, it would decline to a permanent white-blindness.
      It is notable in these letters that while Rowse praised Clemo for his writing, Clemo offered little commentary on Rowse’s work, though he was familiar with it, having read Rowse’s A Cornish Childhood twice already and owning a copy of Poems of a Decade. (The fact that Clemo owned a book in the early 1940s and kept it until his death shows that it was of some significance. Otherwise, it would have been sold on to make room for more important volumes.)
      Rowse replied enthusiastically again and with equal punctuality, on 2 April 1948, repeating his praise and elaborating on it:

I have been knocked sideways by [Wilding Graft]. I have been very much moved – the book has filled my mind these last few days. The intensity of it is the great reward you have for the isolation and loneliness in which you live. ... This novel is a wonderful one: well worthy to be a descendent of dear Hardy. More than that I could not say; for you may know that I worship him.

He emphasises the local history they shared, and repeats a query Sir Arthur Quiller Couch had offered years before, when Q had been sent one of Clemo’s juvenile novels at the end of 1939. Rowse here adds a little of his notorious relish:

You know so much more about the life of the people than I, are they really like that? You give a terrible portrait of them in the book … You must know pretty well what I have always, or for so long, felt about them: their hypocrisy, their narrowness and meanness …, their back-biting and ungenerosity, their love of doing some-one down… But are they really so appalling, do you think, as you see them? ... I know how disgustingly crude they can be – or rather must be: for I don’t allow these people to come within a 100 yards, I had almost said miles, of me.[9]

Clemo reads loneliness into Rowse’s criticism of ‘the people’, remarking in his diary: ‘I do feel sorry for him, crying out for understanding and fellowship … I’d expected Rowse to sneer at the book, yet he hails me as a fellow saint who will be stoned with him.'[10]
      In this long letter, Rowse offers a few factual corrections to Wilding Graft, including pointing out that the Truro monument to which Clemo refers is of Richard Lander, not of Henry Martyn. It was a mistake Clemo corrected in subsequent editions. Rowse also acknowledged having read Clemo’s provocative letters to the Cornish Guardian: ‘I remember your writing emotional-religious lrs to the paper years ago when I was a Labour candidate: they then seemed to me rather confused … and I couldn’t make head or tail of them.’
      Clemo’s swift response was again overwhelmingly about himself, and some of the natural antagonisms between Rowse and Clemo are suggested:

You owe so much to the schools, while I’ve struggled through without their help, and with a vision they would have tried to destroy … I was too slovenly to have the sorts of ambitions that could be frustrated, content with the primitive and childlike levels, the flashes of intuition of an untrained mind. You, on the other hand, seem always to have felt the itch to escape from all that, to be civilised and adult. This difference of mental texture explains much: it explains why I can depict the people as harshly as you do on paper without ever wishing to get away from them in real life.

Clemo writes of his latest book:

It’s an autobiography – as different from yours as it could possibly be, much more raw and elemental: no story of struggle for scholarships … but a record of spiritual and emotional upheavals which drove me out of Methodism (I was reared in strict Nonconformity and never lost my respect for the best type of Nonconformist, the Sam Jacobs type: even you admired him), into various forms of pantheism and at last to my present faith.[11]

Clemo is referring to Confession of a Rebel, which was published the following year. It is as prickly a work as Rowse’s A Cornish Childhood.
      This letter from Clemo, which largely continues in the vein of self-concern with some added criticism of Rowse, appears to have cooled the correspondence. Other than occasional cards apologizing for the lack of any reply, Rowse waited over three months before responding. He had, however, continued to support Clemo’s work, sending copies of the novel to his own contacts, like Howard Spring, and providing reviews. Indeed, it was after Rowse’s radio review of Wilding Graft that Helena Charles, the first leader of Mebyon Kernow, went out immediately and bought three copies; one for her, and two to give to friends. This would be the start of another interesting correspondence and relationship.
      After a shorter letter in July 1948, the correspondence with Rowse was discontinued until the following year, when, on 16 September 1949, Clemo sent Rowse an inscribed copy of Confession of a Rebel, again comparing their personalities:

I wonder which of us is the typical Cornish Celt? I fancy the answer must be ‘Neither,’ though you probably come nearer to it than I do. I’ve been pushed away from Cornish interests by abnormal circumstances … Your ‘Celtic’ elements are disciplined and disguised by French clarity, while mine are submerged under Teutonic dogmatisms.

It is fascinating and consistent to see Clemo defining his ‘nature’ as brutish and primitive, and also that he considers the influence of bloodlines to be so sophisticatedly schematic. In Confession of a Rebel, as well as in the 1951 essay ‘The Hocking Brothers’, Clemo wrote that his literary talent probably derived from the Hockings, who were distant cousins of Clemo. The familial relation, however, was very weak: Clemo’s father’s mother’s mother’s father was the Hockings’ father’s father. There was little shared ‘blood’, and none of it, of course, was from the literary siblings themselves, but rather from their ancestors. Clemo adds to his statement that he has ‘felt a spiritual force working against the natural tendencies and turning me into something quite different from what Nature meant me to be.'[12] This is a reference to the pivotal struggle Clemo perceived at this point between the ‘Natural fate’ into which all are born and the alternative divine predestination of the converted Christian.
      Three weeks later, Rowse replied, congratulating Clemo on the autobiography, which he declared ‘a success’:

You have said what you meant to say and in a way that comes straight through to the reader. It is a complete revelation of you, and that – whether sympathetic or not – is what an Autobiography should be.

Again, there is the gentle hint of antagonism agitating the waters in this letter, though it never fully surfaces. It is a long epistle, in which Rowse notes that Clemo’s published criticism of academics is ‘not worthy of you now’. But perhaps most attractive is Rowse’s defence of his old benefactor, Sir Arthur Quiller Couch. In Confession of a Rebel, Clemo had attacked the recently-deceased writer and academic a number of times, firstly dismissing Q’s fiction as ‘unreadable’, ‘dry historical romance’, and then claiming that he had returned The Art of Writing to the library ‘unread’, because ‘I recognized its chilly lecture-hall atmosphere as a threat to the spontaneity of my individual moods’.[13] The real cause of Clemo’s antipathy was that Q had not championed him the way he had championed Rowse. Clemo had ‘heard of his generosity to talented Cornish boys, his determination to give working-class youngsters of promise an equal opportunity of educational advance’,[14] and so in 1939 he had posted Q a copy of an over-drafted novel, ‘Private Snow’. In Confession, Clemo writes of Q’s ‘refusal’ to help, and of how Q had treated him ‘as a decadent who was best left to struggle alone’. This, Clemo concludes, ‘is disturbing proof of the limitations of the educational system [Q] represented.'[15] Rather than championing Clemo, we are told, Q ‘returned the manuscript with a short letter of criticism’, and he is further condemned for ‘not mentioning to anyone his personal opinion of me’.
      In fact, Q’s letter to Clemo has survived, and his account of it in Confession is unfair, the quotations manipulated and the generosity of Q’s response considerably reduced. Clemo had sent him a poor manuscript of a tired theme, and Q had considered it very carefully, offering more feedback than it possibly deserved. Rowse, of course, knew Q well, and Clemo’s account did not ring true. In his response to the criticism in Confession, Rowse began: ‘One can completely understand how deeply disappointed you were. And yet you must be just to him.’ Q had, writes Rowse, ‘the most beautifully developed and balanced character of any one I have ever known’. There follows a long tribute to Q’s excellent character, during which Rowse recommends to Clemo that he must ‘be kind to [Q] in your thoughts, as he was the kindest man who ever lived: not at all chilly and academic as you think.’ Moreover, Rowse explained, writers receive a great many manuscripts from budding authors and it was kind of Q to have replied at all, let alone with such consideration. ‘So again, be kind to the world of civilised culture, that is itself so much kinder. All the happiness of my life is bound up with Oxford; all the unhappiness with Cornwall.'[16]
      In his 13 October 1949 response, Clemo continued the discussion, concentrating on academia and schooling:

I can understand that, from your standpoint, my prejudice against the academic world must seem unworthy. Yet … I was originally excluded by my temperament, my genuine lack of that kind of ability. I was debarred from a secondary school education by the fact that I failed to pass the examination, so I could have achieved nothing in the scholastic sphere even had I not been physically handicapped.

This was intended as a reply to Rowse’s suggestion that Clemo was too hard on academics and academia, but it goes no further than to say that an academic life was not open to Clemo himself, or would not have suited him. It is an interesting response. Rowse’s problem had been that Clemo dismissed academia and intellectualism as such, as though it were one musty homogenous mass. That is, Rowse’s criticism was objective, suggesting that one can’t criticize all of academia, all academics and all institutions simply because one was not suited to it. It would be like making a moral case against people who eat cabbage just because one finds the taste of it repulsive or it gives them wind. Clemo’s sometimes solipsistic approach to logic and argument poses possibly the most serious barrier to the study of his prose. That is, he uses logic and appeals to logic and direct experience, while at the same time derogating logic, empiricism and the intellect when they do not suit his premise.
      In the same letter, Clemo once more compared his autobiography with Rowse’s:

I bought [A Cornish Childhood] just after it was published, as I’d begun jotting notes for my own autobiography and thought I might find in yours a few useful tips on this kind of writing. I did find much helpful stimulation in your book, though of course when I came to write my Confession I found I had to do it in my own way, which wasn’t much like yours.

Again, the unclarified antagonism. It is in this following phrase, too:  ‘I’ve often wondered why I take such a Henry Fordish view of history – but I suppose we all have a weakness for dismissing as “bunk” something which really isn’t.’ In the context of the letter, this seems like a dig at Rowse’s irreligiousness. Or in the passing comment, when Clemo describes how he was laid up ‘with an attack of eye trouble brought on by an accidental blow in the eye which I got while romping with one of my little girl friends: very characteristic. No life could be less “adult” – and therefore less like yours – than mine is.'[17]
      There appear to be no further letters from Rowse to Clemo, and it is quite possible that from this point on Rowse sent only brief cards in response to Clemo’s requests, when he responded at all.

In 1949, Clemo was appealing for money. He was concerned for his future, with no new novel forthcoming and being unfit for work, both deaf and very poorly sighted. Cecil Day Lewis suggested that Clemo should apply for a Royal Literary Fund grant, with A. L. Rowse a supporter of the petition. On the same day Clemo received this letter from Day Lewis (17 November 1949) he wrote to Rowse asking for help. Rowse agreed, but when in three weeks’ time the letter of support had not arrived, Clemo began to chase him up: ‘I should be glad if you could let me have your letter of recommendation to the Royal literary fund as soon as possible’.[18] He added that, on top of this letter of support for the RLF, if Rowse could write and send a further letter of recommendation for Clemo’s failing novel, The Shadowed Bed, that would also be a great help. Once more, Rowse agreed and acted, but ten days later he received yet another letter. This time, Clemo was asking Rowse to write on his behalf in support of his being given a Civil List Pension, because ‘my handicaps will prevent me from being a prolific writer’.[19] But a General Election was looming, and Rowse was too busy with it to help. He suggested Clemo write again when it was all over. Clement Attlee was re-elected for Labour on 23 February 1950, and soon after, the following arrived:

Dear A. L. R.,
Now that the Election is over I am wondering what steps are being taken about the Civil List Pension. I hope a start has been made, for it looks as if I shall need it pretty badly. My new novel has not been accepted yet, and the Literary Fund committee decided to pay me only half the £200 grant this year, so I’m just scraping along on £2 a week, which doesn’t give me enough comfort or security to tackle any work that demands prolonged effort.[20]

In May, Clemo wrote to Chatto & Windus what the publishers called ‘a rather pathetic letter’. He was asking them to chase Rowse for his letter of support. But Rowse was losing patience, seemingly fed up with the constant appeals for his help. He may have felt that he had offered Clemo a lot of support already – praise for Clemo’s writing, letters supporting financial appeals, reviews of his work, negotiations with American publishers, recommendations, and so on. But Clemo had offered nothing, not even a pleasant word on any aspect of Rowse’s work. There is no sense in Clemo’s diaries or other correspondence that he was even aware that it might have been polite to offer some sign of friendship, appreciation or camaraderie. Rowse was an opportunity, the means to an end. He had made the literary and academic contacts that Clemo desired.
      Often, Rowse wrote slim private commentaries in the margins of letters he received, usually critical of his correspondent. Against this one from Chatto & Windus he wrote only: ‘I did get him one grant'.[21]
While Clemo’s demands might seem impolite and even self-centred, his vulnerability should not be underestimated. Clemo’s health was in desperate decline and he was dependent upon his ageing mother for just about everything. It must have been terrifying. The initial literary success of Wilding Graft and the encouragement of Cecil Day Lewis had led him to believe that financially he and his mother would not need to worry about having to scrape by on her war widow’s pension and odd-jobbing anymore, but long term solvency depended on Clemo’s ability to continue writing – especially novels, which sold and paid better than poetry. However, Clemo would never write another original novel after Wilding Graft. No new plots revealed themselves and he could only tinker with those older works of the 1930s, a fact that caused him considerable anxiety. He needed help. His mother could not navigate the literary world, and nor could he, as he could hardly write a letter without her and could not hold a conversation without her writing out the words of any interlocutor into the palm of his hand. How was Clemo to perceive the nuances of conversation, the physicality of relationships, intonation and delivery, when he could not hear any speech or see a smiling face? He had entered into the world of publishers, agents, journalists and reviewers, a world dominated by old friendships, meetings and contacts, though Clemo himself was unable to forge friendships in the usual way and unable to participate in these meetings. He was deaf, blind, Cornish and working class. In the scramble for position, notice and preference in such a London-dominated industry, Clemo was at a practically insurmountable disadvantage. This is to say that while Clemo can come across as stiflingly needy in his correspondence, it is because he genuinely depended on the help of others. It is a testament to his tenacity and ambition, as well as to his literary ability, that Clemo succeeded at all. It is also testament to the quality of his literary friendships. Cecil Day Lewis was commendably sensitive and generous when dealing with Clemo during the publication of those first three books. Charles Causley, too, was definitively kind and his impact on Clemo’s career probably crucial. Theirs was a lifelong friendship.
      Rowse, on the other hand, though sympathetic to Clemo, was not a patient man. Certainly not as patient as Causley, their mutual friend. All references to Rowse later in Clemo’s life were faintly critical. In 1976, for example, Clemo wrote in a letter how Cornish literature had been ‘dominated by the academic sceptical tradition begun by Quiller-Couch and carried on into black atheism by A.L. Rowse.'[22] Two years later: ‘As a writer I have always felt lonely in Cornwall, having nothing in common with Q’s humanism or Rowse’s rationalism or Anne Treneer’s tolerant scepticism.'[23]
      Neither Rowse nor Clemo were straightforward men, and Clemo was probably unaware that Rowse continued to help in small ways – ways that did not put him out. For instance, Rowse contributed to a fund being raised to buy him a new typewriter at the end of the 1950s, a fund started by Charles Causley, who in his first letter to Clemo had connected these two St Austell men, writing: ‘I think the “Confession” – with A.L. Rowse’s autobiography – the two most important books to come out of the west of England ever.'[24] As well as Causley, Rowse and Clemo shared another contact, Lionel Miskin, the extraordinary artist who befriended many local literary men when he was living at Mevagissey. Miskin painted both of them, though the strange figure of Clemo in the cottage and clayscape seemed to work better, and Miskin made more than a dozen paintings and drawings of him. But aside from brief and uncommitted moments such as these, and the tribute Rowse paid Clemo on his death in 1994, it seems that once Rowse had turned his back, he barely thought again of Clemo.
      To me, their simultaneous proximity and distance invites a new way of placing poets and of writing the map. There might have been much common ground – splintered sexualities, ambivalent geographies, displaced identities, literary ambitions queerly nurtured in poor clayey soil, and so on. They even shared literary favourites, like D.H. Lawrence and Thomas Hardy. But some of this common ground had scarred them, made them incompatible.
      The relationship between Rowse and Clemo was short-lived and uncomfortable, but it is almost incredible that these two men should have come so close to friendship at all, considering the force of each man’s character. And it is doubly incredible that their complete interaction should be recorded as it has been. This is both the curse and the gift of studying Jack Clemo. There are, on the one hand, few recordings of him speaking, no spontaneous interviews or conversational anecdotes, and he will always be hidden behind the crafted word. But equally, his inability to converse means that practically every interaction he had was committed to paper, and this remarkable meeting between two of our most interesting and awkward writers has been preserved in all its seething, subtle curiosity.

[1] The Cornish Review, number 9, winter 1951.
[2] Sexuality was at the core of Clemo’s worldview. He was not especially homophobic, but his faithful ambitions and personal desires were markedly heterosexual, Christian marriage being an early goal and ideal. In later life, Clemo would remark that he did not like ‘gay exhibitionism’ (in the 1990 interview with Felicity Warner), and in 1981, after reading Radclyffe Hall’s The Well of Loneliness, Clemo noted that it was a ‘deeply moving novel’, but ‘overloaded with Lesbian propaganda’ (note the capital ‘L’). Clemo’s interview with Felicity Warner can be found in the University of Exeter’s Special Collections Library, reference EUL MS 68/PERS/1/4/4. The 1981 diary is EUL MS 68/PERS/2/44.
[3] The date of the letter is clearly 1948, a fact supported by the postal stamp as well as by cross-referencing with Clemo’s personal diaries. However, when Jack’s widow Ruth edited the archives, she crossed out 1948 and wrote 1947. It is not clear why, though it is one of many questionable and distracted editorial impositions she has made on the collection.
[4] The letters from Rowse to Clemo were kept in a box of ‘Letters from Literary Men’. They are in Exeter’s Special Collections, reference EUL MS 68/PERS/1/4/2.
[5] This is from an unpublished poem of Clemo’s from 1961, entitled ‘Inheritance’.
[6] Diary, 8 May 1948. EUL MS 68/PERS/2/11.
[7] Diary, 1 April 1948.
[8] EUL MS 113.3.
[9] ALR to JC, 2 April 1948. EUL MS 68/PERS/1/4/2.
[10] Diary, 3 April 1948.
[11] JC to ALR, 4 April 1948.
[12] JC to ALR, 16 September 1949. EUL MS 113.3.
[13] CoaR, 136.
[14] Ibid. 169-70.
[15] Ibid. 170-71.
[16] ALR to JC, 4 October 1949.
[17] JC to ALR. 13 October 1949.
[18] JC to ALR, 9 December 1949.
[19] JC to ALR, 19 December 1949.
[20] JC to ALR, 27 March 1950.
[21] Chatto to ALR, 2 May 1950.
[22] 22 October 1976.
[23] JC to Donald Rawe, 13 October 1978.
[24] Causley to Clemo, 19 October 1951.

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