Tabard Cigarette Company

tabard

Tabard cigarette tin, price realized: £1,076 on 25 September 2002, Christie’s London.

From the auction catalog description:

“The ‘Tabard’ Cigarette & Tobacco Co. Ltd.’ a ‘Tabard’ cigarette tin, 5¼in. (13.3cm.) long, containing Shackleton’s petty cash, the majority South American small currency and one small mineral sample; with a Huntley & Palmers biscuit tin and a Players Navy Cut cigarette tin, the latter containing petty cash.

PROVENANCE:
Sir Ernest Henry Shackleton (1874-1922) and thence by descent to the present owners.

Tabard was Shackleton’s cigarette company formed with his tobacconist in Piccadilly, Forbes Lugard Smith, in 1904: ‘Shackleton saw Tabard — probably named by himself, influenced by his brother Frank, after the embroidered tunic of a herald — not as another path to instant fortune, but as a hopeful sideline. It was the one business with which he persevered, although it was no more than a glorified shop in Lynedoch Place. After the Nimrod expedition, it followed him from Edinburgh to London where it was housed in Smith’s depot in Foubert’s Place, behind Regent Street.’ (R. Huntford, Shackleton, London: 1985, p.351)

The Tabard office became the Imperial Trans-Antarctic expedition headquarters in 1914 with both the company and expedition sharing a secretary. The company went into liquidation in 1916.”

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He who goes first into the fray

protesilaos

F. S. Welhaven, 1807-1873, Norwegian: Protesilaos (1839-45).

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The Heart of the Antarctic

heartof_firstedition

FIRST EDITION, NUMBER 4 OF 300 COPIES SIGNED BY ALL THE MEMBERS OF THE SHORE PARTY.
Price realized: £15,000
Christie’s London, 15 October 2009

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A command of vivid, forceful English

“If I said that any chapter was simply the transcription of notes taken down from Shackleton’s dictation, I should be telling an untruth. If I said that any chapter was entirely mine, I should be telling an untruth. My work was complementary to his. I could say that Shackleton had a remarkable gift of literary suggestion… and that when his interest was stirred at critical portions of his narrative, he had a command of vivid, forceful English… Shackleton and I understood each other thoroughly.”

— Edward Saunders, ghostwriter for The Heart of the Antarctic, 1909

Online version available at archive.org.

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Garden Party

shack-tea
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The undisputed Lion

“A green and blue gauze were put together to look like the sea, and between the folds fishes were placed. On the top of this a large sheet of plate glass was laid, edged around with seaweed. In the centre was a model of the Nimrod made entirely of flowers, the ropes done with white heather and a Union Jack flying from the topmast.”
— Morning Post, 16 June 1909

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The Lone Trail

THE LONE TRAIL

Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it,
Though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit.
Ye who take the Lone Trail, bid your love good-by;
The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow till you die.

The trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried;
You tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways divide;
And one lies safe in the sunlight, and the other is dreary and wan,
Yet you look aslant at the Lone Trail, and the Lone Trail lures you on.
And somehow you’re sick of the highway, with its noise and its easy needs,
And you seek the risk of the by-way, and you reck not where it leads.
And sometimes it leads to the desert, and the tongue swells out of the mouth,
And you stagger blind to the mirage, to die in the mocking drouth.
And sometimes it leads to the mountain, to the light of the lone camp-fire,
And you gnaw your belt in the anguish of hunger-goaded desire.
And sometimes it leads to the Southland, to the swamp where the orchid glows,
And you rave to your grave with the fever, and they rob the corpse for its clothes.
And sometimes it leads to the Northland, and the scurvy softens your bones,
And your flesh dints in like putty, and you spit out your teeth like stones.
And sometimes it leads to a coral reef in the wash of a weedy sea,
And you sit and stare at the empty glare where the gulls wait greedily.
And sometimes it leads to an Arctic trail, and the snows where your torn feet freeze,
And you whittle away the useless clay, and crawl on your hands and knees.
Often it leads to the dead-pit; always it leads to pain;
By the bones of your brothers ye know it, but oh, to follow you’re fain.
By your bones they will follow behind you, till the ways of the world are made plain.

Bid good-by to sweetheart, bid good-by to friend;
The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow to the end.
Tarry not, and fear not, chosen of the true;
Lover of the Lone Trail, the Lone Trail waits for you.

Robert Service, in The Spell of the Yukon and Other Poems, 1907

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